So, Kevin, tell us what you want when you grow up.
When I grow up, this is what I want:
I want to have so much money,
I can't even fit it all in my house.
I want my own jet plane.
I want a mansion.
And I want, like, a whole bunch
of really awesome things to play with.
Happy birthday, Kevin!
Friends...
they say the past is prologue,
and who would have guessed that that skinny kid would grow
into the man standing before you today?
Yet beyond the bank account and
the billion-push-up body and all of my other
extracurricular achievements...
...inside, I'm still that ten-year-old boy.
And really...
aren't we all?
Mind if I join the party?
Oh, my God!
Our battered birthday boy is Kevin Fetzer.
It was a private affair-- all the guests are his friends.
Well, with a possible exception or two.
Foots this bill, a guy's got to have some bucks.
Yeah, he was an entrepreneur, started a franchise
called Joystick Jungle, something like that.
The king of drunken Donkey Kong.
Joystick Jungle,
it's a video arcade for adults-- pinball, Pac-Man,
pizza, lots and lots of booze.
Letting intoxicated adults act like little kids.
It's a surefire investment.
Well... the new American Dream--
perpetual adolescence, right?
Maybe that explains the underwear.
They're on backwards!
Got dressed in a hurry, or drunk?
Or...
killer put them on him.
Wanted to turn him into a...
an eight-year-old.
Look at this.
Gravitational blood drops
where the other candles have been deliberately removed.
Candles, redressing.
Killer took some time.
After he took his life.
♪ CSI 12x08 ♪ Crime After Crime Original Air Date on November 16, 2011
== sync, corrected by elderman ==
♪ Who... are you? ♪
♪ Who, who, who, who? ♪
♪ Who... are you? ♪
♪ Who, who, who, who? ♪
♪ I really wanna know ♪
♪ Who... are you? ♪
♪ Oh-oh-oh ♪ ♪ Who... ♪
♪ Come on, tell me who are you, you, you ♪
♪ Are you! ♪
So you're the victim's best friend.
When did you last see Kevin?
Ten minutes before the big reveal.
Said he had to go behind the curtain,
light the candles.
Anybody go back there with him?
No. Kev liked to handle things himself.
Little bit of a control freak.
Didn't like surprises.
Russell.
Hey, Doc.
When I heard "tycoon,"
I was picturing top hat and monocle,
or at least pants.
Obvious blunt-force trauma.
Oh, he lost his two front teeth.
Not so cute at his age.
Yeah, I couldn't find any teeth around here, but judging by
the medium-velocity sprinkles on the cake,
this is where the beating took place.
Something's stuck between
the cuspid and incisor.
Could be dinner.
Huh.
Surveillance is pretty thin
throughout the club, no eyes in this area.
The bouncer did say
that there was one ugly incident earlier.
Kevin got into it with an uninvited guest,
had him tossed out.
Anyone have a name for this uninvited guest?
Kevin called him "Dad."
Oh.
Son gives dad the heave-ho.
Maybe dad comes back to remind him who's the grownup.
Sure, Doc, take the awesome club scene,
classic arcade games, beautiful women...
why would I be interested in that?
Are you whining? That's not very Super Dave of you.
Maybe we should remember
that some people have it worse. - Yeah.
Like this poor John Doe.
If there ever was a candidate
for stop, drop and roll.
Jimmy, let's go. We have work to do.
He inhaled fumes at the scene.
Mm.
Okay, so what's this guy's deal?
Officer drove up on a fire blazing,
open end of an alley, found him.
Burning tire around the body
probably slipped down from his throat.
Necklacing--
South African thugs
and cartels south of the border both do this.
It's sad the things that the world can agree on.
Not good seeing this in Vegas.
Same principle as being burned at the stake.
Takes a while for the CO
and the smoke inhalation to kill you.
Until then, hell on earth.
Gang neighborhood,
Snakebacks versus La Tijeras.
Ah, let me guess-- no witnesses.
Didn't hear the screaming, didn't even smell the bonfire.
These tires are two different treads.
They're probably from a junkyard.
They're not gonna give us anything.
Hope of any trace
or prints from the outside of the tires is up in smoke.
Well...
let's try to get an I.D. on this guy.
I say...
we strip the Michelin from the man.
Well, one C.O.D.--
Cause Of De-pantsing,-- is still a mystery.
No evidence of sexual activity.
Mm.
So the pants around his ankles
was more message than make-out.
And the other C.O.D.?
Asphyxiation via fatal vanity.
His two front porcelain veneers were broken and inhaled.
Lacerated the bronchi, caused a bronchial spasm.
Teeth weren't the only body-mods.
Pec implants, hair plugs.
Geek makes money, remakes himself.
You take your new pride and joy for a spin,
inevitably somebody dings it up.
Weapon was a round implement, roughly spherical.
Didn't find anything like that at the scene.
Booze flowing, games blasting, plenty of opportunity
for the killer to sneak out with a weapon.
You throw a good enough party, people think they can
get away with anything.
Who do you think you are, Kevin?
Think tossing me from your party makes you a man?
You're a weak and scared little boy!
Not exactly a Hallmark greeting.
But then you're not exactly a father, are you, Rick?
Abandoned him when he was ten,
didn't pay a dime in child support,
son of a deadbeat, beat dead.
You think I had something to do with that?
Well, I think that's a lot of rage to show
a half an hour before he was killed.
And I think a trucker with a repo'd rig
has got nothing to haul
but a greedy grudge against his millionaire son.
You crash the party, you hit him up,
he shoots you down, so you really hit him up.
And then you leave him a reminder--
don't get too big for your britches.
There was something wrong with him, even when he was little.
Sick and twisted little something.
The way he'd look at people.
As he got older,
made you not want to be around him.
So I'm not surprised someone would see fit to...
beat the hell out of him.
Just wasn't me.
Well, you got an alibi or just your sunshiny attitude?
Soon as he made clear I wasn't getting paid,
I left that party.
Check the cameras at that casino next to the club.
I had better luck yanking those levers.
Spun a jackpot, won enough to get my truck back.
Happy birthday to me.
Unless your birthday vic was part beaver...
the weapon was wooden.
Trace from his teeth is varnished oak.
Baseball bat?
Hmm, well...
the wounds are spherical, not cylindrical.
Rough extrapolation
of the curvature, we're looking at something with a diameter
of four to five inches?
Wooden ball.
Arcade tycoon, right?
- Yeah. - Ah...
Arcade Bowl Ball.
Excuse me?
From the classic game of luck and skill
beloved by children of all ages-- my guess,
that's what bashed your vic's face into a bloody pulp.
Arcade Bowl is not one of the games at the club,
so the killer would have had to bring the ball in.
Making the weapon of choice significant, no?
Disgruntled arcade employee.
That's a good place to start.
Hey, how did swab-a-palooza go?
Uh, 200 party guests, all swabbed, printed
and checked for spatter, all clean.
Well, maybe you'll have more luck at your next case.
I want you to restock your kit,
and go meet Morgan at the Park Motel.
It's a scene, not a date, you wacky kid, you.
Hey, I heard you're looking for unhappy arcade clerks
who might have played Whack-A-Boss.
I didn't find any.
And Fetzer's franchises don't carry Arcade Bowl.
But the weapon is so unusual
that I searched online for any connection
between Kevin Fetzer and the game.
Check this out.
In 1991,
an eight-year-old boy
named Mikey Moran was celebrating his birthday
at an arcade.
He goes missing.
His body is found behind the place.
His pants are off; he's been beaten to death.
The weapon, a bloody arcade ball, is lying next to him.
Unbelievable.
"Arcade worker Kevin Fetzer, age 15,
"said it was a day
that nobody in the arcade would ever forget."
And guess what acne-faced future millionaire
was questioned as a person of interest?
Kevin Fetzer.
Yeah. I pulled the case file.
There was never an arrest made for the boy's murder.
Somebody turned Kevin's birthday into his judgment day.
Motel guest heard a disturbance, phoned it in,
officers responded and found her.
Her name's Darlene Crocker.
Motel manager said she's been staying here a few weeks.
- Alone? - Not really.
She's been known to have various male guests...
For an hour at a time.
But witnesses said
nobody left during or after the attack.
Snuck out a window...?
Huh-- no getting through those bars.
Bathroom windows would be tight,
even for a lightweight,
and this damage is Ali-Foreman.
Some sort of crystals--
Cocaine?
Maybe meth?
Got a little powder near her mouth.
I don't think it's drug trace.
So... she's using with some lucky man of the hour.
Somehow, session goes sideways.
And what, he just kills her
and leaves without anybody noticing?
These punctures have irregular jagged edges.
That's inconsistent with a single, sharp blade.
Messy stabbing...
messy scene...
clean getaway.
Like the killer just vanished.
Bloody Mary.
Well, yeah, there's an empty bottle of vodka on the bed.
No, not the drink,
the ghost.
You stand in front of a mirror,
lights out,
you say your name three times.
And she bursts through the glass and kills you.
Are we at a crime scene, or
a seventh-grade sleepover?
Just a theory.
Someone beat Kevin Fetzer's face in with an arcade ball.
There's some justice in that.
I've got the case file
from the original arcade ball murder--
Mikey Moran-- just to jog your memory.
Yeah, that was one of the first murders I ever worked.
A scene like that, your memory gets plenty of miles on its own.
We found the body behind the arcade.
The weapon was right there.
And for my money, so was the killer.
That Fetzer kid struck me strange
the instant I saw him.
He's hanging around the scene, and then
he leaves for an hour,
and comes back carrying two little shoes.
Ugh. Mikey's?
He said that he found them ditched a half block away.
He just happened to be looking over there.
But there was no physical evidence found
that connected Kevin Fetzer to the crime.
Well, we did find a pubic hair
on the little boy-- blond, like Fetzer--
but DNA testing was new, and we didn't get a result.
And it wasn't re-tested with improved technology?
The, uh, sample was consumed on the first test and...
that was my call.
I was new on the job.
I went all in, and I crapped out.
That was the first time that I learned that the job isn't fair.
You know, you could have the killer standing
right in front of you, know that he did it and...
you know, it feels like the cuffs are on your own wrists.
We've all been there, Lou.
So, do you have any suspects on Kevin Fetzer's murder?
No. Brass talked to Fetzer's dad,
who had an alibi.
We got him on casino surveillance.
He should be talking to Mikey Moran's family.
After what Fetzer did to that little boy,
if that were my kid, I wouldn't have waited 20 years.
Considering where and how we found him,
we figured our John Doe was a Snakeback or a La Tijera.
There was nothing to help get more specific,
except his arms pinned to his sides
left small portions of unburnt flesh
and an old battle wound.
I've been searching for similar scars
in the gang database.
Our burning man is a La Tijera
named Ramon Castillo, street name Espectro.
Yeah, it means "Ghost."
Big baller with La Tijeras some years back.
Made my early days in the gang task force a real joy.
Earned you some overtime,
did he, Sam?
Yeah, he and a Snakeback rival, Diego Barra,
they were a regular Itchy and Scratchy.
Shots traded back and forth,
killing each other's friends.
- Barra's still on the street? - No.
Been locked up for almost a decade now.
He could have ordered the hit from inside, no?
Let's put him on a bus
and bring his ass down here and talk to him.
How's your Spanish these days?
No bueno.
But you can help me out there, bud.
Tu? Nunca.
Vamos.
Your motel vic's organs are pale
as a result of exsanguination
due to severing of the carotid jugular complex.
Her throat was slashed.
Someone did a number on her.
Hello.
Maybe Darlene Crocker looked her killer in the eye
and didn't like what she saw.
Weapon was a shard of broken mirror.
Hers were the only prints on it.
No one was seen leaving the motel room,
so we're thinking she killed herself.
Brutality like this is unusual.
Suicide is resignation.
These wounds are rage.
Did you and Morgan find any drugs at the scene?
Uh, just some kind of crystal trace.
Smell this.
Ugh! Room service in Hell doesn't smell that bad.
What is it?
A distinct ether-like odor.
Pretty rare these days.
PCP.
Oh, bad trip.
That would explain the self-mutilation.
Hallucinatory state.
She thinks she's fighting off untold dark forces.
Not self-destruction...
in her mind, self-defense.
Well, Henry's running tox right now.
If it is PCP, we'll get confirmation.
Detective Vega.
I know you.
You put me in the joint and never come to visit.
I was waiting for a special occasion,
like the day they'd flip the switch.
You must be confusing me with some other innocent vato.
I'm only doing 25 to life.
Not if you had anything to do with killing Espectro.
Serious?
Damn right I'm serious.
Someone ghosted him for real?
I'm shocked you didn't know.
You best believe I wanted to kill him.
But the punk vanished underground
before I had a chance to stick him there.
So whoever took him out, how'd they do it?
Must have been a lucky shot,
because there was no getting close to Espectro.
That wasn't luck.
Marta.
Marta?
Who-Who's Marta?
No man did that.
For a sinner like Espectro,
there's forces in the universe more powerful than man.
Marta Arterro,
Diego Barra's girlfriend from back in '02.
Now, the hood grapevine says that Espectro
was the one who set her ablaze.
And now somebody kills Espectro
in the same fiery manner.
Nine years later?
That's some serious felony procrastination.
Well, it's 11 years quicker than it took
Kevin Fetzer to catch his retribution.
Okay...
Two crimes...
Both blasts from the past.
Do we think there's a connection?
Crime scene photo doesn't do the trace justice.
You're right.
It's lovely.
What the heck is it?
The trace you got from your motel vic's face is pollen.
From the flame lily.
The particles, not unlike one David Hodges,
exhibit a highly-sculptured outer shell.
Helps them cling to passing bodies
in desperate hopes of propagation.
There were no flowers in the motel room.
And we didn't see anything outside.
Possible pollen transfer from the killer.
Morgan, I got those results.
Thanks for the flowers...
...but I got a date with Henry.
Doc Robbins' nose knows drugs.
Motel vic's tox panel showed
a lethal level of PCP in her system.
Angel dust?!
Thought that stuff went out in the early '90s.
Well, you're right.
And the sample she ingested appears to be
from a vintage batch of the drug.
See, there's a trace of a component,
PCC, in her blood-- it was a compound used
to manufacture PCP until the early '90s
when PCC became heavily controlled.
Nobody uses that recipe anymore.
Why would somebody hold on to an old dose of PCP?
With age, it acquires delicious notes of a woodsy vanilla.
No, it stays the same toxic,
stinking nightmare fuel
it started as.
- Doesn't make any sense. - Hm.
Holed up in that hotel room,
dosed with a blast from the past.
Did you just say "blast from the past"?
Our motel room vic, Darlene Crocker,
ingested a lethal load of vintage formula PCP.
Okay, Henry, check out
the LIMS database to see if Darlene Crocker has any prior
criminal record or any connection to old crimes.
Doesn't have to be recent.
Today, the past is present.
Whoa.
Happened again... again.
Morgan and Greg's case.
A Darlene Crocker.
1989, her 12-and-a-half- year-old daughter Chelsea
died a pretty gruesome death on PCP,
just like her mother did today.
A little girl with that kind of drug?
Junkie older brother, Ken Crocker,
confessed to having fed it to her and then got sent away.
22 years later, Mom self-destructs on the same drug?
Yeah.
See, I'm not so sure that she just happened
to choose today to take that dose.
Somebody forced her to take it-- murder.
Just like the burning tires and the arcade ball.
Death by deja vu.
Tonight, you will be visited by the spirits
of three old cases...
Uh, sorry, I haven't had much sleep lately.
The question is, why these three cases,
and why now?
And who's this
mysterious Jacob Marley summoning their spirits?
There's no obvious connections,
and there's years between the murders.
It's three different areas of Vegas,
tire-fire Marta in a Northside hood,
PCP Chelsea in a trailer park,
and Birthday Mikey in the burbs.
Two child vics, one adult.
One big difference.
Espectro and Fetzer
both escaped justice,
at least the first time around,
but the Crocker case was solved.
Brother was convicted.
So why's Darlene paying for that now?
Maybe someone thinks the wrong person paid for it back then.
Yeah.
All right, there's got to be more to that story.
Chelsea Crocker--
she had little plastic flower barrettes in her hair.
The strands of it
she ripped out at the scalp as the PCP ripped through her,
scratched her arms to threads.
She was 12 years old, 70 pounds.
Gram of PCP shoved down her throat.
Dumped like trash.
What ab-- what about the brother?
Ken Crocker.
19, user.
We found him a day later in an alleyway
on the nod, right?
He confessed.
Said his little sister was getting on his nerves,
so he fed her the dust,
just wanted to see what would happen.
Wow. All right.
And where-where was Mom Darlene during all of this?
She was at home asleep, taking a nap.
Gave off a weird vibe, though.
It was something we should've taken a closer look at.
Why? What do you mean?
Well, about two years into his sentence,
brother Ken hires a P.I.
He said he was so messed up
on the night of his sister's death
that he forgot he had an alibi.
So, the P.I. checks it out,
proves it, gets Ken off.
But the kid blew his luck two days later on a motorcycle.
So, the mom was the only one at home
the night that Chelsea died.
The cup used to dose her had the fingerprints
of both Darlene and Ken on it.
So with Ken out of the picture,
Darlene was the last suspect standing.
But the DA refused to indict, based upon
Ken's wrongful conviction, because he said it
"muddied the waters."
Well, I guess the waters are a lot cleaner
now that justice is served.
Well, you know, whether or not she was guilty back then,
Darlene Crocker was murdered.
- And I need... - Whoa, whoa, whoa,
whoa, whoa.
The little girl was murdered.
Darlene got what was coming to her.
Hey...
are we done here?
Because I got a lot of work to do.
Chromatogram of the by-products
and impurities in the PCP sample
from Darlene Crocker's motel room this morning,
and the same analysis of the PCP
that killed Chelsea Crocker in '89.
Mother and daughter didn't just die on PCP.
They died on PCP from the exact same batch.
Well, no dealer or user would hold on to the same drug batch
for 22 years.
But I know someplace that does.
All right, a PCP sample
from Chelsea's death was checked out
of the police evidence vault last November.
By who?
Detective Stan Richardson?
Sample was never returned.
Richardson?
He retired a year back.
Did you work with him much?
No, I used to drink with him.
A bunch of us did.
Bar called the Blue Rail.
Richardson would buy rounds
and listen to us bitch about the job.
If you had a case that was really bothering you,
you'd talk to him about it. He had a way
of putting things in perspective.
Make you feel better.
Did you talk to him about the Mikey Moran case?
About Kevin Fetzer?
It was 20 years ago.
You know, I might have.
Talk to him recently?
Not since I stopped drinking, so...
11 years, seven months and 14 days.
We've been trying to reach him, and his address
and number on file are no good.
Like I said, you know, it's been years.
I mean, last I heard, there were still a few guys
who'd tip 'em back with Richardson.
Who?
Hey, what do you drink, Jim?
Are you a scotch man?
I'm more picky about the company than the drink.
Did you forget something?
I heard that you used to drink with Stan Richardson.
Yeah, and...?
Well, I was just hoping you could tell me
anything you could about him?
He's a good detective.
Wore the job hard.
Hopefully on a houseboat somewhere.
Did something happen to him?
Do you know where that houseboat might be?
This about the revenge murders?
Do you think he's involved?
We have reason to believe, yeah.
You're wrong. It's a fantasy.
Every cop keeps a hit list of loose cases
and unfinished business running around in his head.
Nobody ever acts on it.
Stan Richardson checked out drug evidence
two days before he retired.
It was used this morning in the murder of Darlene Crocker.
Richardson is not a murderer.
Well, maybe he calls it justice.
You know?
They get what they have coming, right?
Excuse me. Yeah?
Okay, listen up, boss.
The Pension Office said Richardson's funds
are direct deposit to some bank.
He said that automatic payments for rent are to 600 Oak Street.
Catherine and I are headed there right now.
Okay.
Make sure you bring backup.
Mr. Richardson doesn't get many visitors.
Exactly how long has Mr. Richardson
been residing here?
Six weeks.
He'll be missed when he departs.
Mr. Richardson, some friends are here to see you.
Detective...
Richardson?
You finally caught up to me.
What more do you want?.
You've got my confession.
I made those people pay for their crimes.
I'm ready to settle up.
Well, we've talked to your hospice nurses, Stan.
End-stage pancreatic cancer.
You haven't been out of bed in a month.
When something must be done, the universe
has a way of granting power.
Oh, we're in agreement
that you had help; it was just
more of the human variety.
Well, since
you're so at peace with the universe, you wouldn't mind us
taking a look around your little corner of it?
No. Go ahead.
Thank you.
If you see
anything you like...
I have no need for it anymore.
Nick.
There was trace of lily pollen
on Darlene Crocker.
Soil's been disturbed.
Avenging angel's buried treasure?
Mm-hmm. Angel's got to have somebody out there
doing the killing for him.
That same killer
tracked pollen into the motel scene,
and the pollen...
...led us to this lockbox.
Sara?
It's the evidence tag from the PCP
that killed Chelsea and Darlene.
Hidden compartment.
Yeah.
What do you think?
Evidence from another cold case?
Maybe Richardson's got more names on his list.
Revenge.
Cool and serve.
I hope you got something.
Nick and Sara couldn't find any prints
on Richardson's strongbox or its contents,
so whoever's doing this is being careful.
Did you find any potential victims?
Talked with a dozen officers who worked with Richardson.
They got any ideas who else
was in his bucket list, they're not saying.
And skimming the cases he worked, nothing stands out.
There's plenty of unsolveds,
but no obvious ones that got away.
Sheriff Liston.
Stan Richardson was my first partner.
Taught me everything when I was a rookie.
Taught a lot of cops.
I don't know who he's working with now,
but I got a bad feeling that's his next target.
Rex Camford? 15 years back,
Camford's wife filed for divorce.
Vanished the next night.
Same night Camford takes his boat out
for a midnight cruise on Lake Mead.
All we had was a handful
of circumstantial and a DA who shied
from no-body cases. No charges.
No doubt in my mind Camford killed his wife.
What about Richardson, did he feel the same way?
Well, after I talked his ear off about it
for six whiskies straight at the Blue Rail,
he was madder than I was.
Which is why I've been trying to get ahold of Camford.
His housekeeper said he didn't make it home from work.
Okay, why don't you...
Sheriff.
Ah, Catherine, Sheriff's got a hunch
about another possible target.
What do you have?
Richardson's phone records from the hospice.
The only recent calls were made from a disposable cell.
Check out the times of the calls.
They line up with the times of the murders.
Yeah.
Someone has been keeping Richardson updated
on his progress.
I was able to ping the disposable cell.
Signal hit tower 114
from a southerly direction, about five minutes ago.
So...
Richardson's wingman is at Lake Mead.
Good work.
And what are the chances Rex Camford's along for the ride?
Detective Vega! Show me your hands!
Son of a bitch!
Sam!
We all know what Camford did,
and we're gonna make sure he pays for it.
- Let us handle it. - System had its chance, Jim!
It didn't do jack!
You know, if it was just you and me,
you'd be down here helping me out.
I'm trying to help you.
Lose the piece, and we're all good.
Drop the gun, Sam.
Hey, guys, he's not moving.
- Sam... - Come on, Sammy,
we've been through too much together, man.
Let us help you out.
Sure.
You can help me out.
No!
Vega! Vega!
I got him!
Get him up to the bank!
Pull him up here!
Come on, Vega, stay with me.
Stay with me, brother.
Get him on his side. Come on, now.
- Here we go... - Vega!
Yeah, we got a pulse.
Go get an ambu-bag. Go on.
He's gonna make it.
No... He's gone.
Control, this is Brass.
We have an officer down, 419.
Hey, hurry up!
All right, here we go, buddy.
Russell.
Why don't you back off of him?
Let-let them handle it.
They got it.
One additional.
Middle-aged man.
Requires medical.
Okay, Bud, Denali's all packed up.
It's been a long night.
You want to hit the road?
Yeah, we probably should.
But let me ask you something.
There are miles of secluded shoreline on this lake,
so why did Vega bring Rex here?
Why this spot in particular?
Maybe with a gun to his head, Rex was compelled to lead Vega
to the very spot where he dumped his wife.
Now, that's interesting.
What do you say we wake somebody up.
That looks like
a skull. - Oh, yeah.
Thank you, fellas.
Look at that.
Sharp orbital margins.
Female.
Shot in the back of the head-- look at that.
Probably dead before she hit the water.
You want to know what I remember most
about that Camford case I worked back then?
This gorgeous Colt revolver
sitting on that arrogant bastard's desk.
We still have it; it's in evidence.
Richardson's not the only one that holds on to stuff.
To my colleagues,
who have shared the burden of the badge.
Many of you won't agree with my methods,
but all of you will understand...
...what it's like to have all the pieces set before you...
...the picture painted broad and clear...
...and watch the killer walk away...
...to live the life they tore from others.
Well, I could not let that continue.
I made a list.
Five names.
Those most deserving of vengeance.
And now, as I embark into life's last mystery,
I do so in peace.
Detective Stanley Richardson,
Las Vegas Police Department.
I heard about the letter.
Guy certainly knew how to get his message across.
Well, cops can be
refreshingly frank sometimes, right?
Listen...
I know you and I aren't gonna buy
a summer house together anytime soon,
but I have a lot of respect for you.
Let's not forget,
we did put away a wife-killer.
Okay. Good talk.
Hold on a minute.
Richardson's letter mentioned five names.
Yeah, Vega was the fifth.
There was a knife inside of Richardson's lockbox.
Sara found a little blood inside of it,
and it was a match to a murdered informant
that Vega had been working a few years past.
Sam Vega could always be a little, um...
overzealous, especially if he thought someone
was holding out on him.
You want my theory?
Richardson knew that Vega was dirty.
Kept the murder weapon.
Because he wanted Vega to pay for his sins
just like the rest of them.
You know, it turns out both funerals are on the same day.
Vega and Richardson.
Well...
I thought I'd get up early,
get on a motorcycle,
and get very far out of town.
I think that's a very good idea.
== sync, corrected by elderman ==