All language subtitles for Backstrom0s01e08

At last.

Lieutenant Backstrom is coming?

I, too, would like
to go home at night.

Look, I was driving Backstrom
here for his appointment,

and then he got a very important
phone call, all right?

But he insisted I come here
and tell you in person, so...

What kind of important call?

A summons from the head of the
civilian oversight committee.

Thank you for coming.

I'm not gonna say no
to a booty call.

First thing I said on the phone
is, "this is not a booty call."

And yet we're headed
towards your bedroom.

Because that is where
the possum is.

Uh-huh. Okay.

Yeah. You know what?
I'm not hearing anything.

Maybe he went away on his own?

You know, if you're lonely,

you don't need to
make up stories

about rabid possums
in your bedroom.

Let's discuss our delusions

after you get rid of the possum.

Let's do this.

Ah!

Uh, okay, you weren't kidding!

You've got a, uh...

Wild animal probably pooping
ebola on your bed.

Oh, God.

Here's $18. Go stay at a hotel.

Where? In 1952?

Text. Text. Text.

Oh, shoot.

Duty calls.

- I need you to get me a ride.
- How did you get here?

- Valentine. But he took off.
- Why?

'Cause he knew
this was a booty call.

One floor upstairs.
I'll get him.

There you go.

Evening, lieutenant.

Why'd you take a cab?

'Cause that's what
grown people do

when they need to get somewhere.

The victim
is Vanessa Taymor, age 44.

Blunt-force trauma

consistent with being struck
and run over by an automobile.

What, that spaceship?

No. That vehicle
was registered to the victim.

Oh, right, 'cause that
battery-operated vanity toy

probably couldn't go
fast enough to kill someone.

This is Vanessa Taymor.

Vanessa Taymor,
the former venture capitalist.

She made a bajillion dollars
before she retired?

She's married to Tad Taymor.

Tad Taymor?

- Tad Taymor?
- Stop saying "Tad Taymor."

Famous former tennis player.

So, the victim is rich.

That's why we're here.

A rich person
gets hit-and-runned,

the big guns get called in.

Is that it?

Bertolt Brecht says,
"corpses sour you.

They are bad for objectivity."

Niedermayer... seriously.

This overlapping pattern
of forward and backward,

centrifugally formed impressions
suggests otherwise.

I...

But the driver
struck Vanessa Taymor here.

She hopped up onto the hood,
cracked the windshield,

and she landed here.

And then the driver
then slams on his brakes,

causing these skid marks,
jams it in reverse,

burning rubber here,
backing over the victim

while she lay prone
on the ground,

and then slamming
on his brakes again here...

Phew!.. and then floors it
into forward,

hitting the victim
for a third time

before continuing out
on the exit.

I mean, at least,
that's the way I see it.

I'm officially declaring this

"a hit, another hit...

another hit... and run."

Thank you.

Thank you.

That's good, right?

Oh, you got to
really hate someone

to run over 'em that many times.

Obviously, the husband did it,

somebody with balls big enough

to pretend that tennis
is a real sport

and rich enough to think

that he could drive away
with murder.

Putting him in jail with
the bottom one percent...

Oh, that's gonna be fun.

Work. Work. Work. Work. Work.

Work. Work. Work.

Work.

It's about time you called.

- You got the husband in custody?
- Yes.

He's in the hospital, but the
doctor says he can't talk to us.

Just pick me up on the way.

The doctor says...

The rich bastard can't hide

behind a note
from his doctor, okay?

And get me a coffee.

I made it clear that Mr. Taymor
is unable to speak right now.

Oh, did he pay you off
to say that?

Mr. Taymor is sedated.
We'll call you when he wakes.

Oh, what happened?

Did he split open his nose
on the steering wheel

when he ran over his wife?

Mr. Taymor
has stage-4 lung cancer.

As a participant in a blind
experimental treatment protocol,

he hasn't left the hospital
in six weeks.

Excuse me.

Terminal cancer. Wow.

Talk about overdoing it
with the alibi.

Lieutenant Backstrom.

Oh. Hey.

Gravely, this is my doctor, Deb.

Back in his home country
of Tandooristan,

he is the sultan of surgery,

but here he just works
for the police union.

I'm here visiting a patient
who needed surgery,

just like I'll visit you
when you're here

for your quadruple bypass.

Okay.

You've missed
three appointments.

Do you have a good reason?

Yes, I do.

It's not... terminal cancer,

but it...
it's a pretty good reason.

Miss one more appointment,
and I will have to withdraw

your provisional
fitness certification.

Nice to meet you, Detective Gravely,

and you have
my deepest sympathies.

And I feel your pain...
Dr. Chaman.

"Dr. Chaman"?

"Deb" is his first name?

I was able to access

the victim's
contact and digital calendar.

Huh. Hotel events manager
corroborates

that she was there
checking out facilities.

She has a curious
appointment today.

At 2:00 p.m., M.J. at M's?

Mm-hmm,
and that same appointment

recurs every Thursday,

so I went online
to check for clues

on what "M.J." stands for,
and guess what?

- Hmm?
- Marijuana.

Mm. So, "M's" her dealer?

And there's also
Michael Jackson, Moose Jaw,

monster jam, mechanical joint,
and megajoules.

So, she has
weekly energy meetings?

In Moose Jaw?

You guys are mocking me.

Okay, so, what do you think
it stands for,

you... you smarty-pants boys?

Mahjong.

Rich ladies play mahjong
in the afternoon.

"M" is her friend who hosts.

How do you know about mahjong?

My mom used to make me

go to after-school programs
when I was kid

funded by rich ladies,

and every now and then,
I had to put on a suit and tie

and go by and say "thank you"?

- During mahjong?
- Oh, yeah. They love it.

Aha. And her favorite contact...
Meredith, no last name.

I'll get my hat.

Vanessa
was a force of nature.

She did so much good work.

Vanessa was a part
of your group?

Yes. We loved her very much.

Wait a minute.

How come there's
eight of you here?

Excuse me?

Mahjong is played
in groups of four,

but your friend just got killed,

which would leave you
a man down...

Which means you knew...

She was not gonna make it today,

which means you knew
she was gonna get murdered.

Ladies?

No matter wh Vanessa
said to anybody,

it was her decision
to quit mahjong.

And why do you think
she'd go and do that, huh?

'Cause she was loved too much?

You're a very rude man.

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

He's not the one playing
dominoes and getting drunk

the day after
your friend was murdered.

We have nothing more to say.

Really? Why is that?

'Cause the Botox
has frozen your face so much?

Or are you really just
a pack of cold, soulless frauds

who have squeezed out
every ounce of human decency

in order to fit
in those dresses,

and who care more
about society secrets

than the death of your b-f-f?

Get out!

Arrest them all.

Give them nothing
but fatty foods and tap water.

They'll talk.

SO1EO8
Give 'Til It Hurts

These mahjong women sit together

on the boards of non-profits,

attend each other's charitable
fundraisers, et cetera.

And our victim,
Vanessa Taymor's, pet charity

is the homeless.

"Literacy, women's issues,
cancer, parks beautification."

Backstrom told you
to arrest all of them?

On what grounds?

And I quote...

"For being rich bitches."

don't worry.
I didn't arrest anyone.

Have we figured out
why Vanessa Taymor

was ejected from the group?

They refused to talk.
And they called their lawyers.

You should try the opposite
of Backstrom... to ask politely.

Ladies, here's the tea
I promised.

This is the peach-blossom
mint infusion

that was blessed by
a Tibetan monk friend of mine.

You were saying
about Vanessa Taymor?

The reason she left?

Vanessa quit playing mahjong
because of Donald Sampson.

The racist-video guy?

Alleged racist.

Uh, the video
shows Donald Sampson

repeatedly using
barbaric racial slurs

in reference
to both blacks and hispanics.

You want to know
how to get rich?

Sell a load of crap...
To the scum of the earth.

And by "scum," I mean the...
blacks, browns...

Yellow ones.
You name it.

It's the oldest trick
in the book.

That's terrible.

It's inexcusable.

I am led to understand, though,

that the tape may not be real,

which is why I felt
that we should wait

before rejecting
his charitable donations.

Vanessa Taymor
felt that it would be wrong

to take Donald Sampson's money
for her homeless charity?

Oh, she felt it would be wrong
for all of us.

Caused quite a rift.

Personally, I say suck
every guilty dime you can

out of the guy.

Detective, we had a spat.

Vanessa quit mahjong...

Not worth murder.

People are saying
that an angry mistress

posted the video.

It's got
eight million-plus views,

and the stock
in Sampson's sports company

is falling fast.

That's why
I prefer prostitutes...

You can trust 'em.

You know, it's an interesting
dilemma for charities...

Do you take dirty money or not?

That is an interesting dilemma,
except for...

Of course you take the money!

Detectives, Mr. Taymor is awake.

There's no chance
it was an accident?

None.

You know anyone that would do

something like that
to your wife?

No. Vanessa was a wonderful,
kind, generous woman.

Everyone loved her.

Your wife was trying
to organize various charities

to reject donations
from Donald Sampson.

It was causing quite a fuss
in her social circle.

I've known don since college.

He only cares about
the bottom line,

not a society lady
refusing his money.

They're giving me
a wonder drug...

Or sugar water.

To tell you the truth,
I don't care with Vanessa gone.

Well, listen, do you think

your wife maybe was having
an affair with Sampson

and then released the video
when everything went south?

No. No, my wife
would never cheat on me.

Well, you have been sick
for a long time.

- Lieutenant.
- Well...

Do you want to look at
your dream board

while I take some blood?

No. There's too many pictures
of Vanessa.

What's this?

Someone force a bunch of kids
to make this for you?

Mr. Taymor made it.

Focusing mental energy
on positive images

can create health miracles.

Wow.

More money than God,

and all you get
is experimental medicine

and a crappy art project.

That's got to sting.

Please, just find
who killed my Vanessa.

Think of it as a deathbed wish.

Hey. Feast your eyes
on this yellow purse...

C�line phantom,
pebbled leather, divine.

The victim's husband
bought it for her

on their 15th anniversary.

She never left home without it.

That's his problem.

No, but it wasn't recovered
at the scene

or in her car or her home.

So, you're saying
the killer dumped the contents

- and stole the purse?
- I would kill for that purse.

Looks like
some other crazy woman

already beat you to it.

Get warrants for
all of our friends' homes...

The mahjong monsters!

I'm going purse-shopping!

What's this,
arts-and-crafts day?

This is a dream board.

Focusing my mental energy

on the amazing things
I want in my life

can create health miracles.

I want Dr. Deb to know

how desperate I am
to get better.

Well, all right.

Did you find that ugly purse?

No. Me and Detective Almond...
we went through four mansions.

You know, I had no idea
people could be so rich.

- That's exactly how they like it.
- Yeah.

Uh, I don't know if pictures
of cigars and liquor bottles

are gonna convey
the right message, lieutenant.

What am I supposed to put
on my dream board?

"Rich people" stuff...
Nice cars, pet giraffes,

courtside trail blazers seats,

Beyonc�, stuff like that.

Lieutenant...

It's a dream board.
I'm not finished.

"To Vanessa, fifteen years gone,
a hundred to go.

Love, Tad."

We found this in the home
of Cristin Kelly.

Ah, the "ugly yellow purse"
killer.

My... wife...

has a... problem.

Yeah. Killing her friends.

She's been diagnosed
with kleptomania,

a-a mental disorder
for which there is no cure.

Well, the good thing about jail

is that will cut down
on her stealing considerably.

In addition to a sworn statement

from Cristin's psychiatrist,

I have receipts from hundreds
of stores we've reimbursed

for stolen merchandise,

establishing
a clear pattern of theft.

This stolen purse

and the tragic death
of our dear friend Vanessa

are purely coincidental,

and you, sir, have no evidence
to prove otherwise.

I rest my case.

I don't know what law school
your daddy bought

in order to get you a degree,

but you need to stop talking
right now.

I'm you.

I'm a moronic lawyer's
aging trophy wife,

and the only way
I get self-esteem

is by being the charity
cancer queen of Portland.

Then Vanessa comes along.

She's prettier, she's richer,

and luckily for her,

her husband
is actually dying of cancer.

She's gonna take my place
as the queen of cancer.

So I run her over and over...

- No. No...
- and over and over.

No, that is not what happened.

You killed her,

and you ripped this
out of her cold, dead hands

and took it home as a trophy.

Yes. I was there.

Being somewhere is not a crime.

Vanessa and I were reviewing
the hotel facilities

for an upcoming cancer event.

Vanessa self-parks.
It's her thing.

I went out front,
but my driver was not there.

Your driver?

I heard... I heard screeches,
and I saw a car,

a-a white luxury coupe,
drive away.

When I found Vanessa,
she was already dead, and...

it was very upsetting!

And stress
is what makes me steal,

so I took the bag.

But I left everything
that was important...

The phone and the wallet
and everything.

Your crap lawyer
should have advised us

that you didn't have access
to a car,

considering your being accused
of committing a hit-and-run.

Gah!

I'm a tax lawyer.

Lieutenant?

Ah.

Oh, no. Here we go. What?

I have a rendering of the
white luxury hit-and-run vehicle

as described by Cristin
to the bureau's sketch artist.

Yeah, very lifelike.

Is this what
you're bothering me about?

No. I'm bothering you
on doctor's orders.

Oh, come on!

No one asked you
to make a fire-escape call.

I came to give you this.

- What is it?
- That's a pedometer, sir.

It measures how many steps
you take in a day.

Helpful not only
for physical fitness,

but to help you sleep,

as I will not be replenishing
your prescription.

You know what?

I could arrest you
for talking about my problems

outside of your office.

But you won't come to my office.

Well, maybe if you let me
smoke there, I would.

My struggle
is to keep you alive.

Luckily, this pedometer
will send me updates

without your help.

If you take
less than 10,000 steps,

I yank your fitness certificate.

None of this matters

because I am making
a dream board,

which can cause miracles.

That's wonderful.

Yeah.

But visualization techniques
work best

with an un-addled soul.

Bring it to my office,
and we'll discuss it.

- Okay, Niedermayer...
- What?

I need you to make me
a dream board.

- It's this collage of all...
- I'm aware of the concept, sir,

but you can't build
somebody else's dream board.

Why not?

Because dreams are an expression
of subconscious desires,

and if I build your board,

it'll be expressing
my subconscious

and I guarantee you

that Dr. Deb
would know the difference.

- I knew it was a scam.
- Hey.

Oh, what now?

For days ago,
before she was murdered,

our victim had a very loud,
very public argument

with the director
of the downtown mission.

Yeah, but I guarantee
our homeless-lover

doesn't drive
any fancy, white car.

Maybe not,
but he's a former junkie,

a former armed robber,
and a former car thief.

The mission is close.

You could walk

and get a jump
on those 10,000 steps.

You could jump off
this fire escape.

But I guess we'll both
have to live disappointed.

Come on. Coming through.
Stand back.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.

- Sloppy Joes.
- Now?

You wouldn't stop for pizza.

Hold on.

Excuse me.

What's going on?!

Hey! Hey, come on!

Not bad.

Hey! One per person.

One per homeless person.

The rules are for everyone.

- Put it back!
- It's half-eaten...

But I guess you're used to that.

You cut in line.

Easy. You're pushing it.

- Oh, I'm gonna push it.
- Are you?

Yeah.

Yes. Vanessa and I argued.

And I'm bummed
that was our last interaction.

She was a great human being.

What did you argue about?

Donald Sampson.

The racist.

Sampson...
is to be presented with

our "mission angel
of the year" award...

In return
for a $50,000 donation.

Vanessa Taymor wanted to
pull that award.

Yep. But I'm a practical man.

The trophy cost 10 bucks.

In return, we get $50,000.

That's all right!

Go ahead. Stand up.

I dare you.

All right, back up!

Jim, calm down! Calm down!

Whoa.

- Backstrom, you all right?
- I'm okay.

I'm a cop. I have a gun.

I pay taxes. I have a job.

I have a job.

Collecting cans is not a job.

I work for Mr. Donald Sampson.

What?

- What do you do for him?
- Mr. Sampson pays me 50 bucks

to feed quarters
into his parking meter.

Outside the shelter?

No. Near the hotel Vivienne.

When was the last time
you did that?

Yesterday.

That doesn't make sense.

Why spend 50 bucks
to avoid a $15 ticket?

So there's no record
of him ever being there.

He's having an affair
with our victim.

I knew it.
To the bat cave, Robin.

Wait a minute.
Robin rides shotgun like you do.

If anyone's Batman here,
it's me.

And shouldn't you be walking?

Good point.

Hey, sloppy Joe,
here's five bucks.

Walk to the police station
for me.

To the bat cave, Alfred.

Donald Sampson

checked in twice a week
under a fake name

and paid cash.

And you found that out how?

The lieutenant had a fistfight
with a homeless man

over sloppy Joes.

I don't think Backstrom
got in a punch.

He was like a turtle
lying on its back.

Hey, the room at the Vivienne
matches the room

in Sampson's disgraceful video.

Vanessa leaks it,
Sampson kills her.

A fundraising crusader
and a racist corporate pig

make a really weird couple.

Actually, they've known
each other for a very long time

'cause in the early '90s,

Vanessa's husband, Tad,

beat Sampson to win something

called the...
the NCAA Championship.

Is that a big deal?

Pretty big deal, yeah.

So, Sampson never forgets

and sees
an opportunity for revenge

by sleeping with Taymor's wife.

Well, women have needs, and her husband
is sick and unable to fill her.

That is exactly
what the lieutenant said

to the sick husband.

Oh, how thoughtful of him.

So then she finds out what a monster
he is and leaks this video.

And to stop her
from leaking any other secrets,

runs her over
in a fancy, white coupe.

Is this enough
for us to get a warrant

to search the cars for damage?

It's not even enough evidence

to call him on the telephone.

We really need an excuse
to look at those vehicles.

"Jingle for jungle gyms."

It's a fundraiser that gets
playground equipment

for inner-city kids.

It's happening
at the Sampson house tonight.

Of course.

If you're gonna have a public
event on your property,

then there's no reasonable
expectation for privacy.

Good job, Moto. We can
search for evidence

and take photos and samples,
and it's all admissible.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.
$10,000 a table?

I'm gonna call the chief.

The city's
bound to have tickets.

Yeah, and I'm gonna call
the lieutenant

and tell him to pull out
his formal poncho.

What's up?

It's a charity fundraiser?

- Yes.
- Tonight?

Four hours from now.

I'm supposed to look like
a rich bastard.

Mm.

- And it's black-tie?
- Yes.

And you actually care about
the dress code because why?

It's a municipal who's-who.

I might run into
somebody important.

Oh...

Amy?

Huh?

You are really gonna need
my help.

Will you or won't you?

I will if I can be
your rich-bastard date.

Sure.

Oh, wow!

Up until now,

the fanciest thing
I'd ever been to

was a Hungarian wedding.

I don't think we should drink.

Mmm.

We're undercover.

And this is not the cheap stuff.

There we go.

For you, madam.

It looks like the footprint
of the house

matches what we were able
to access from public records.

Mm-hmm, Sampson keeps
his car collection

in a 20-car garage

on the southern side
of the property.

My God.
You... you are beautiful.

Damn, Paquet.

You fit in good.

Hey.

Okay. Good to see you.

Looking sharp.
Looking good.

You clean up.
You are stunning.

Has anybody seen the lieutenant?

Is that Backstrom?

Can't be.

Oh, God.

Yep. That's Backstrom, all right.

They're about to start
the speeches,

and that's when we need to
snoop the hit-and-run car.

- Lieutenant Backstrom?
- Oh, God.

This is unexpected.

Chief Cervantes gave the
special crimes unit her table.

Oh, the chief
didn't want to be seen

hobnobbing with Sampson, huh?

You'll notice the mayor
isn't here, either.

In fact, nobody good is here.

- Punch her in her Botox.
- I hate her.

What do you got?

The garage has two doors.

One's down the hall,
past the kitchen.

That's the one that most likely
will be unlocked.

Yeah, and there are
security guards,

but they're mostly concerned

with steering people
towards the potta-porties...

Very gauche.

Porta-potties.

Hey, Niedermayer.

Hey. Hey. What's going on?

Nothing. We're just dancing.

Niedermayer, will you stop
fiddling with Valentine?

Get Moto, go to the garage,
and find that car.

No. This is the garage door,
but it's locked.

Maybe it's just stuck.

No. People this rich
don't have sticky doors.

All right, I'm gonna kick it in.

No.

What? The murder vehicle
might be behind this door.

If you kick this door in,

everything behind it
is inadmissible.

That's what
the lieutenant would do.

Well, exactly.

May I?

All right,
so, the doors are locked.

Okay, and what about
the outside entrance?

It's too well-lit.

We can get a warrant
if we can see in the windows.

There are no windows.

Hi.

Uh, no, not a chance,
twinky-boy.

It's "twink," frenchy.

Looking for me?

This is literally the last place
I would expect to find you.

I'm working on a case. You?

Well, someone from the city
had to be here,

and I like the cause.

Plus, I have experience
with insufferable blowhards.

Ha ha.

Do you want to dance?

I have to take 10,000 steps,
or my Dr. Deb will ground me.

Long story.

Yes. Please.

Admit it. I look amazing.

Ah, traditionally,
you tell me how good I look

before fishing for compliments.

Oh, that's how it works.

I'm a better dancer
than you remember.

Isn't that true?

I remember
you being pretty good.

Oh!

So, why are you really here?

- Are you following me?
- Pbht.

You flatter yourself.
I'm actually undercover.

Yeah...

Go ahead and say it...

Very James Bond.

A chain-smoking,
Martini-swigging,

promiscuous sociopath?

Yeah, I've outgrown that type.

You look amazing.

And...

I should have said that first.

Thank you.

Everett...

Amy!

I smell champagne and scotch,

so I'm guessing there's probably
vodka going on there, as well.

I'm working undercover.

My dad was an alcoholic.

I know.

He wrestled with it
his whole life.

Before he died...

he gave me this.

Oh.

He quit drinking
and started gambling?

It's a 30-day chip
from alcoholics anonymous.

My inheritance.

You carry it around with you?

Everywhere... always...

Until now.

I want you to have it...

Until you earn your own.

So, that's the deal?

I quit drinking, join A.A...

And we give this another try?

I'm not making any kind
of a deal here, Everett.

If I did something
to give you the impression

I wanted to try again,

I apologize, because I don't.

We both know that's not true.

I just wanted to be friends...

But I guess
that isn't gonna happen.

Uh-oh.
He's walked to the bar.

Double vodka on the rocks...

Hold the rocks,
double the vodka.

There's Donald Sampson!

Heavenly father, we beseech you.

Please don't let Backstrom
speak to Sampson.

Women. Am I right?

You're not gay?

Why? 'Cause I shaved?

I just saw you come in
with that stunning creature.

Him?
Ah, he's just my gay tenant.

The woman that I love... she...

Never mind.

You a rich guy?

You got rich-guy hair.

I'm Donald Sampson.

Talk about woman problems.

Hoo-hoo!

Excuse me?

Well, that post-coital video
that got leaked.

Enjoy the rest of your evening.

You know what I'd do?

I'd kill the bitch
that leaked the video,

then run her over with my car...
Maybe a couple of times.

Bartender, another drink
for my clever friend.

Yes, sir.

Another one, please.

Uh-oh.

Double vodka, no ice,
double the vodka?

What's wrong? You okay?

Yeah.

I'm fine.

Highlight of my evening

was Donald Sampson
thinking that we were a couple.

He called you
a "stunning creature."

Yeah, well, now,
that sounds like an invitation.

No, not in the way

that would lead him
to buy you fancy things.

Why don't you let me
be the judge of that?

- Okay, yeah. Good luck with that.
- All right.

- That was fast.
- You were right.

He's rendezvousing with a woman.

- I think his wife?
- I doubt that.

Let's go.

I-I wanted to hurt you

for threatening
to go back to your wife,

not ruin you.

I hate myself
for leaking that video.

I swear.

You are the most expensive fling
I have ever had.

Well, I judged him too harshly.

He's certainly
not sleeping with his wife.

Or the murder victim.

Sampson didn't kill her.

Are you sure?

She didn't leak the video...

Which means maybe a rich person
didn't do the murder,

which means maybe we've
been looking for the wrong car.

Niedermayer,
is it possible the sketch

could have been
of a poor person's white car?

It's very possible.

In fact, as the science
of aerodynamics

has gotten
more and more refined,

there's less and less
differentiation...

Oh, no!

I'm not drunk enough
for your garbage.

I'm going home.

Everything about this event
disgusts me.

You all right, lieutenant?

Let Moto give you a ride.

No! Got to walk 10,000 steps.

Hup, hup, hup.

What...

Mm, mm, mm, mm.

Hey. You can cheer up.

You got quite
the workout last night.

Ohh. That's disgusting.

Work. Work. Work.

Work. Work.

- What?
- You were right.

That's the least stupid thing
I've ever heard you say.

We found three white cars
that match the police sketches,

but only one of them has traces
of blood on the tires.

So, who's the car belong to?

Well, that's the thing.
It's a... flashcar,

which is a drop-off/pickup
rental service.

So, trace the account.
The renter's the killer.

Okay, Almond is running
the V.I.N., and alas...

Whoa, ho. don't say "alas"
to the lieutenant

first thing in the morning

if you want to make it
to the afternoon.

Hey.

The rental account
belongs to the victim.

Wait. So, she was run over
by her own... rental car?

Paquet thinks that the flashcar
is not a dead end.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.

Come on. Quiet.

Some of us are trying
to have a hangover.

All that's needed
to create an account

is a credit-card number
and its billing address.

So, here's a list

of people Vanessa gave
this credit card to...

Mostly from her charities,

people making purchases
on her behalf.

The killer is on the list.

It's someone who had access
to her information.

Okay, here's
what we need to do...

Go back to basics.

What did Vanessa Taymor do
to deserve getting run over?

Excuse me?

Oh, Amy rejected him,
so now he hates all women.

Ohh.

We're assuming that the victim

was this kind, lovable,
wonderful person.

Well, most women really aren't.

Oh, good God.

Her life had only two aspects...

Her charity work
and her husband.

We've already gone over
the charity work.

You think the husband did it?

He's dying. And he loves her.

Love is a myth

invented by teenagers
and the diamond industry.

Is anyone on that credit-card
list linked to the husband?

Okay, well, his nutritionist
used it for vitamins,

his private chef...

Oh, yes...
And his driver for gasoline.

Oh.

"Oh"? What, "oh"?

Well, there were
five separate donations

for $20,000 each
to cancer solutions, but...

Wait... cancer solutions
isn't a charity.

It's an llc.

And Dr. Bai
is the sole proprietor.

You see how right it feels
when everything pulls together?

Vanessa Taymor was bribing you
to make sure

her husband got the drugs
instead of the placebo.

You got nervous
someone would find out,

so you ran her over with a car.

That money wasn't a bribe.

- No?
- I'm a researcher.

Grants are extremely hard
to get.

Vanessa wanted to help.

I hope you're a better doctor
than you are a liar.

Mr. Taymor isn't receiving
the experimental drug.

He's in the control group.

Interesting.

- Wait. Where are you going?
- Lieutenant!

Mr. Taymor, where's
your nurse clicker thing?

Nurse!

What's going on?

I'm gonna get you some jello.

Nurse!

You need something?

Yeah.

I'll have a drink
of whatever he's having.

Go ahead.

Do it.

Your world is very dark.

You call it dark.
I call it woefully predictable.

So, if this is the placebo,
I should be fine, right?

What if it isn't?

He'll have a seizure,
perhaps go blind.

Maybe you should
think about this for a second.

Oh!

Ahhhhh. Mm!

I knew
I was getting the placebo.

We're gonna need
a bigger dream board.

Ah.

Dream board.

New and improved.

Much less wife.

Those images were too painful.

It defeats the purpose.

Interesting fact
about dream boards...

They reflect
the subconscious desires

of the people that make them.

But rich people
don't have subconscious desires

to live in mansions,
'cause they actually do.

And they actually drive
fancy cars,

and they actually
go on exotic vacations.

You didn't make this.

She did.

Brittany helped. So what?

This is her dream board,
not yours.

The subconscious never lies.

Is nursie on Paquet's list

of those who had access
to the credit card?

Yes.

She did it.

She rented the car.

Check her computer.

Do I have your permission
to search this computer?

No, you do not.

- Now you have administrative privileges.
- Thank you.

A lot of people
can get at this computer.

It's in a very public place.

I'm you.

A burned-out nurse,

tired of 12-hour shifts,
changing bedpans.

"And then I meet
a filthy-rich guy...

"Or, at least, he will be
once his wife is out of the way.

And he's gonna need
someone to lean on."

"And that someone could be me.

"I could comfort him,
get him to depend on me,

"fall in love with me, marry me.

"And the best thing is,

he's got a shelf life
of, what, a year?"

"Then it's all mine."

Aah!

I got it.

A flashcar account
was created on this computer

the day before the murder.

Brittany Gottman logged in
at 2:05 a.m.

At 2:15, a confirmation e-mail
was sent from flashcar,

and at 2:20, she logged out.

You are a very naughty nurse.

You're done.
You can get dressed now.

Your liver tells me
you haven't quit drinking,

your pallor tells me
you aren't sleeping,

and I have seen
with my very own eyes

that you haven't stopped
smoking.

When you finally fall
of a heart attack or stroke

or whatever inevitable malady
takes you,

they will turn to me and say,

"how could you find him
fit to work?"

Oh. So it's about you.

The worst part
about your world view

is that it's contagious.

Those of us around you

begin to see ourselves
as you see us.

You think I'm a terrible doctor,
I become a terrible doctor.

No, not so terrible.
I got 10,000 steps, right?

My feet are killing me.

It's merely a machine
that counts

what the machine part of you
is achieving.

There's a machine part of me?

It measures activity.

You like activity

because it allows you
to avoid reflection.

It is reflection which leads us
to our true best selves,

not activity.

So, the pedometer is stopping me

from reaching my true best self.

Perhaps another doctor
would have better luck.

I don't want another doctor.

You joined a program?

I didn't want to come see you

until I could prove
beyond a shadow of a doubt

that you had, in fact, helped me
become my true best self.

Thank you.

Thank you.

- Good for you.
- Thank you, Dr. Chaman.

- Good for you.
- Okay.

Good for both of us.

You must wear the pedometer.

I will check on it daily

to see how many steps
you have taken.

Fantastic.

'Cause you know what they say
in the program...

"One step at a time."

"One day at a time."

That's what I said.

Learn to speak english sometime,
you freak.