Bones (2005–2017): Season 5, Episode 7 - The Dwarf in the Dirt - full transcript

Hey, Booth, right?

You're a legendary shot, man.

- I'm Carson.
- I'm concentrating.

I heard you could shoot a hole
through the middle of a dime on the run.

Excuse me.

Obviously got the wrong guy.

Great. I was worried you'd be gone.

- Uh, almost gone.
- Well, almost is almost.

So, if I ask you a question,
can you answer it in plain language?

Yeah, I'll do my best.

Great. So, uh...



Okay, what's our deal?

- Our deal?
- Yeah, yeah. What are you?

FBI shrink? Friend? Objective observer?

Oh, you wanna know my primary role.

Okay, well,
that depends upon a number of factors.

Sweets, plain language.

The FBI hires me to evaluate agents.
You're an agent.

So, FBI first, me second?

No. No, no, no.
Agent Booth, that's not what I meant.

- Okay, Sweets. I get it.
- Please. Let me finish.

You just called me Agent Booth.
That says it all, Dr. Sweets.

You know, I learned the importance
of vocabulary choices from you.

And I gotta go catch a murderer.

Booth.



- Why aren't you cracking wise?
- Why? Because it's not 1945.

- Well, shall I start making jokes?
- Just let it flow naturally, okay, Bones?

Well, I've noticed in the past,
when you're grumpy,

your mood tends to elevate
when you tell me about it.

Just had a bad day on the range.

- Was that a cowboy metaphor?
- No. I just... Look,

next week I have to recertify
as a marksman and I...

- I don't know if I'm gonna make the grade.
- Well, obviously you need more practice.

Maybe this is
all because of my brain tumor?

Highly unlikely,

given that aiming a firearm involves
your cerebellum and occipital lobe,

while your brain tumor
is temporoparietal.

Perhaps you should speak to Sweets.

Meaning what, this is psychological?

No. I can't talk to Sweets.

- Why not?
- Why? 'Cause he works for the FBI.

He's gonna go and tell the Bureau
that I'm all loopity-doopy-do.

I can't have that. Sinkhole?

No, thanks, already got one.
That's it over there. Big sucker.

No, let's not do that right now,
Officer Novarro.

All business FBI, gotcha.

Road collapsed about 4:00 a.m.
Broken water main.

Took a car down with it,
but nobody got hurt.

- It's mostly pumped out now.
- Then why are we here?

Because you're the bones
people, right? We've got bones.

Oh, they're green. That is very interesting.

Be careful, Bones.

They don't look right,
if you ask me.

Why? Because they look so green?

Get closer.
That's not all that's wrong with them.

Definitely human.

The evidence down here
has been totally compromised by water.

Is it a kid?

You mean because
of the small stature? No.

Dentition indicates late 20s, male.

- Why is he green?
- Well, that's not really our highest priority.

Wait, wait. How can being green
not be a priority, Bones?

Gold coin.

Look at that, Bones.

- Hey.
- Oh, what happened?

Water main break. All right,
got another water main break down here.

Well, look at that, Bones.
You're at the end of a beautiful rainbow.

Where I am
is at the bottom of a muddy pit.

Okay, think about it.
The end of a rainbow, a little green guy,

gold coins, what does that tell you?

That I need an umbrella, and that
the remains are horribly compromised.

Tells me leprechaun.

Are you praying?

- Making a wish.
- Same thing, really.

Rather than counting on superstition
to make you shoot more accurately,

you should just practice more.

Thanks. Okay.
Why don't we just get Darby O'Gill there

out of the pit and back to the lab, all right?

Somebody shut the water off!

We're good. Shut it off!

Leprechauns are thought to explode
if you touch them with a broom handle.

A, these remains
show no signs of being exploded.

And, B, I think you can guess B.

There are no such things as leprechauns.

This is good.
We're developing a shorthand.

The large skull and torso
combined with short limbs

and evidence of hypotonia
points to achondroplasia.

- Dwarfism.
- Indeed.

I think I know
why our victim's bones are green.

The soil is lousy with iron oxides.

That combined with
the acidic ground water

turned the calcium in the bones green.

How long would that take?

Depends. How far down into the bone
does the green color extend?

Two to three millimeters.

I'm gonna go with two to five months.

So, we have time of death, if not cause?

Most of the abrasions to these bones
were caused very recently.

Well, a car fell on the remains last night.
That's gonna be a factor.

The question is, how did our leprechaun
end up buried 20 feet under the street

wearing only his knickers?

The most likely scenario
is that he was murdered

and tossed in a storm drain,
service tunnel, or sewer.

A 60% subluxation
between the scapula and the humerus

indicates that
his right shoulder was dislocated.

Congruent with having been dragged?

As a literal dead weight, yes.

Firing two branzino, one duck,
one rib-eye, rare.

And one of the branzinos
is without potato.

Well, it's the customer's loss,
the vile bag of gobslobber.

So you prefer this to psychiatry?

Agent Booth!
Yes, yes, I do, as a matter of fact.

Yes. Well, it's the smell.

Plus, let's face it,
Chef Gordon Gordon Wyatt

has more of a ring to it
than Dr. Gordon Gordon Wyatt.

What do you think?

- Wow! That's amazing.
- Isn't it? Isn't it?

- What do I owe this pleasure to?
- Well, listen, I...

Be careful with those morels, Edith.
They're $60 a pound!

- Sorry, Chef.
- Chef, I need some advice.

Well, I'd advise you
on how to cook an omelette.

Or how to sous-vide a pork chop,
if you want.

Yeah, go with those.

No, I need some shrinky advice.

Well, I stopped being a psychiatrist
some time ago, as you know.

Firing three halibut, two shepherd's pie,
one rack of lamb.

Is it something to do with the jumbling

your poor boggled noggin got last year?

- That's what I'd like to know.
- Well, my brain expertise these days

is confined to preparing a superb

saut?ed cerveaux au beurre noir,
I'm afraid.

- Go!
- Maybe you could just pretend like

I'm a recipe that needs fixing.

- Tell you what, take that.
- Oh, wow. Okay.

- And that. Go to that table. Go.
- Yeah.

Chef's table, somebody, please.
Prepare. Thank you.

If I eat this, it's gonna cure me?

Heavens no, but it'll give you
something to do until my break.

Right. Somebody, service over here.
Thank you.

The victim was struck in his face.

At the nasal and the zygomatic.

Well, at worst, a blow like this
would knock the victim unconscious.

Good find, Mr. Nigel-Murray,
but not cause of death.

I've catalogued a large number
of remodeled fractures along the ribs,

plus bilateral flattening
of the proximal radii.

Enhanced muscle attachments
here and here

indicate the victim was very strong.

I'd assume that was to compensate
for his condition.

What if his strength
wasn't compensation for his condition,

but led to all these injuries?

A super strong dwarf.

Such as might be found
in The Lord of the Rings.

The victim has all of the occupational
markers of a wrestler.

- A midget wrestler?
- No, midget is not the proper term.

As a scientist, you should be aware.

It may not be the proper term,
Dr. Brennan, but I can assure you,

correct or not,
midget wrestling is an American pastime.

As wrong as that may be.

I'm trying to match the physical
characteristics of our leprechaun

to any professional wrestlers
on the wrestling circuit.

Wrestling is popular in many cultures.

It was the supreme contest
in ancient Greek games.

Well, those were mostly beautiful boys
wrestling around all oiled up and naked.

That could be our victim.

The muscle development
appears consistent.

The distinct curvature of the femur
is undeniable.

Then it seems our leading contender
is the Iron Leprechaun.

- So it was a leprechaun after all.
- Well, that's him.

But I'm fairly certain that Iron Leprechaun
is not his actual name

but only his wrestling moniker.

Thank you.

Oh, no. Well, this says
that he's wrestling tonight.

That would mean that I was wrong
about him being the victim.

Yeah, believe me,
I'm as surprised about it as you are.

But perhaps this Iron Leprechaun
will be aware of someone else

who looked exactly like him disappearing.

I could spend the rest of my life
analyzing the contents of that sinkhole.

Yeah, let's not do that.
Let's start with the coins.

All right. Well, Brennan found
a Chinese Panda right beside the body.

Now within three meters
I found four Krugerrands,

a French Rooster Franc,

a Gold Indian Head,
and a Canadian Maple Leaf.

- Worth a lot?
- Well, the Rooster alone...

Hey, thank you, Sandy.

...is worth about 400 bucks.

- Are any of these coins traceable?
- No. They're all common gold coins.

There's a hefty market in it for people
who are afraid the economy will crash.

- But it's not like they carry serial numbers.
- What about them?

It's a.22 caliber Ruger Mark III,
rusted beyond all belief.

It's loaded and unfired.
It could belong to our victim.

Or it could've been tossed in the sewer
20 years ago.

Let me know if you find something special.

So you failed to execute
a simple plumbing repair. Big whoop.

I had to get one of those Dummy books.

This is delicious. I mean, it was great.
You're a good cook.

And you say you forgot
about your rather distinctive belt buckle?

Yeah, Bones had to remind me.

Well, none of these adjustments strike me
as being particularly earth-shattering.

Ah. You haven't got to the juicy bit yet,
have you?

Oh, I see. You've certainly become
an indiscriminate homicidal maniac.

Well, that is a cause for concern.

No, what it means
is that I'm a lousy shot, all right.

And I have to recertify next week.

I don't know
what you expect me to do about it.

The only time I've ever fired a weapon,

it reared up and struck me
on the forehead.

I just need you to help me fire my gun.

That sounds desperately phallic.
Is this maybe a sexual problem?

Don't say that.
Don't even put that out in the air.

It would explain your reticence.

Why haven't you gone to see
the estimable Dr. Sweets for help?

'Cause I can't go to him.
He works for the FBI, all right? It's...

You're Gordon Gordon.
Come on. Help me out.

All right. I'll tag along,
and I'll see what I think.

No, no, no. I thought maybe just,
you know, hypnotize me.

Give me one of those blue pills.

One quibble. It's Chef, not Cook.
Chef, all right?

It may seem rather
a picayune detail to you,

- but it's quite meaningful to me.
- Okay.

So, did Booth tell you about the plumbing?

And the socks and the belt buckle
and the shooting, yes.

- Anything else you noticed?
- Why are you asking Bones?

Well, she spends more time with you
than anyone else.

I think that if Booth
wants to be a better shot,

he should just practice more.

Come on, Bumblebee. Come on, man!

Ooh!

I'm nearly certain that is our victim.

What, the Bumblebee fellow or the elf?

The leprechaun.
It's obviously a leprechaun.

Hey, Bones, you wanna go up
and tell the poor guy he's dead, or shall I?

Well, he does look a bit vigorous
for a dead leprechaun.

That's not him.

What do you mean it's not him?
You said that was him.

No. That's him. In the poster.

That's not.

His forehead.
The frontal bossing is far too prominent.

Boo!

That man is not the Iron Leprechaun!

Boo! Fake! Fake!

Bones, what are you doing?

Booing is the appropriate way
to show displeasure at a sporting event.

- Fraud!
- Shut up!

Look at his femur!

- One cannot deny the femurs.
- No, can't.

One, two, three. Bumblebee wins!

Ladies and gentlemen.

Ladies and gentlemen,
tonight's winner at 4'4",

122 pounds, Bumblebee Man!

Let me handle this.

Excuse me, pal, FBI.
I wanna have a word with you.

FBI. Oh, no!

Now I gotta go get this guy.
Come on. There we go.

No, no, no. All right. Whoa, whoa.

- You really don't want to be doing that.
- Come on.

- Booth?
- What?

- Are you okay?
- I'm fine, okay?

Get the guy out of the ring,
and I'll talk to him. All right.

- What're you doing? Are you kidding me?
- Booth, are you okay?

- Do you need help?
- I don't need help.

I'm fine, Bones, all right?

Will you just get off my back, all right?
I'm gonna start losing my patience.

Look, sorry, I just...

What did you expect me to do?
He came at me like a rabid ferret.

- You suck!
- What was I supposed to do?

Dr. Sweets.

Dr. Gordon Gordon Wyatt.

Well, Chef Gordon Gordon Wyatt,
as a matter of fact.

So, observing your prey

before heading on in
to interrogate him, are you?

Yeah. Agent Booth has had me
conduct more interrogations lately.

That's quite the vote of confidence.

I know why you're here.

Agent Booth left my office
and immediately went to you, didn't he?

No, I'm all right with it.

There have been a few changes in Booth.

- Well, since the brain tumor?
- Yeah, is that why he came to you?

He doesn't trust me?

Right. How could I forget
about cook-client privilege?

- Chef-client privileges.
- Has he also told you

about how now when he climbs
stairs, he leads with his right foot,

rather than his left?
He holds his phone to a different ear.

- Coffee in his left hand.
- How wretchedly observant of you.

Not me, Dr. Brennan.

- Would you like to accompany me?
- To what end?

Double teamed by a psychologist
and a chef. It'll be epic.

My name is Todd Moore.

- Then who's this?
- The Iron Leprechaun.

How many Iron Leprechauns are there?

Just one. Well, at a time, I mean.

I took over when the last Iron Leprechaun
took a powder.

- When was that?
- About three months ago.

- What's this one's name?
- That's Bryce DaFonte.

Well, I'm sorry to say,
your predecessor is now deceased.

We found his body
at the bottom of a sinkhole.

Bryce is dead? Oh, man.

Well, that totally explains
why he'd bail on a sweet gig.

Being an Iron Leprechaun
is a sweet gig, is it?

Yeah. It's a very popular character.

You two think I killed Bryce,
tossed him into a sinkhole

so I could take over the franchise?

Well, I was there when Agent Booth
identified himself as FBI, and you ran.

Running away from the FBI
is always suspicious.

I'm Canadian.
My work visa expired a week ago.

I thought you were gonna
ship me back to Sudbury.

Have you ever been to Sudbury?
You would've ran, too.

Do you know anyone
who would benefit from Bryce's death?

Gidget, I guess. She's like
the Vince McMahon of our world.

Well, how would this Gidget benefit
from losing her biggest star?

Well, when Bryce was the Iron Leprechaun,

she used to have to pay him
a piece of the gate.

Me, flat rate, 300 bucks a pop.

I'll tell you something else, too.
They used to bump uglies.

And it didn't end so great.

Somebody murdered Bryce?

Well, you know,
your number one draw disappears,

you had to have had a theory.

I just figured he couldn't handle
what happened between us anymore.

- Murdered how?
- Well, what happened between you?

Come on, we had a thing. Got old.

I moved on. I thought at first
Bryce did, too, but it ate at him.

Guys are like that, you know.
On the outside it looks like they don't care,

but on the inside
they're chewing themselves up like cancer.

I gotta be a suspect, right?

We don't like to come right out
and say that.

Well, I know I am,
'cause Bryce was suing me.

- Really? What was he suing you for?
- A bigger cut of the gate.

I didn't take it personal. Maybe he did.

You know men, something goes
wrong in the heart department,

it always shows itself in another way.

You know Bryce had a criminal past, right?

Yeah, he went to prison
for assault or robbery.

What can I say?

I got a thing for the bad boys. Don't you?

No. I prefer good boys.

- Really?
- Yes.

Yeah. So, do you know if Bryce DaFonte
owned a gun?

Of course not. He was on parole.
I'll tell you something, though,

I had a sweet little pistol
that came up missing

right about the same time.

Ah, thank you.

Do you know, there's something about
an American diner griddle

that turns out eggs that rival even the
greatest bo?te de d?jeuner in all of Paris.

So, you've really done it, huh?
Turned your back on psychiatry to cook.

Well, there's more than one way
to feed people, you know.

You're irked, aren't you?

Oh, no. It's just... You gotta admit,

all that experience and knowledge
and wisdom trapped in a kitchen.

It's crazy.

I would suggest,
that what really chuffs your eggs

is that in his hour of need,

Booth turned to me for advice
instead of you.

But Booth couldn't go to see you.

Because your first duty is to the FBI.

Well, he should trust me.

He does trust you, implicitly.

Obviously not.
He came to you, right? A chef.

But the point is,
he would never do anything

that would compromise
your professional obligations.

He's too fond of you for that.

Did he say that out loud?

He came to me knowing
that I would consult with you.

Which is what I'd like to do now, please.

In short, he believes that
his brain condition has rendered him

incapable of hitting the broad side
of a barn with his firearm.

- That must really drive him up the wall.
- Exactly.

So, I look forward to consulting with you

on the strange case of the man
here and after referred to as Agent B.

Yes.

You know what I said about the eggs

- doesn't extend to the potatoes.
- Oh, God.

Frozen.

Positive identification on the victim.

Bryce DaFonte.

- That's a mug shot.
- Here you go.

Apparently, Mr. DaFonte
was somewhat violent

before channeling his aggression
more productively.

By pretending to be a vicious,
head-cracking leprechaun?

Indeed.

Thanks. What are you doing?

In searching for cause of death,

I found three small grooves along
the margin on three separate ribs.

Number two on the right,
five and six on the left.

Not caused by being crushed by
two million pounds of gravel and asphalt?

The nicks are deeper
than the extent of the green patina.

Telling us that they pre-existed the green,
very good.

Okay. What else do these nicks tell us?

I haven't the foggiest.

Were you aware that
Marilyn Monroe had six toes on one foot?

Keep looking, Mr. Nigel-Murray.

- Morning, Agent B.
- Hi, Sweets.

Okay, about the other night,
when I came to your office...

"Enough said, enough said,"
said the blind man to the deaf man.

And in this case, I am totally the deaf man.

Not just deaf, mute.

You wanted me to talk
to the victim's family with you?

Yeah. I got the twin brother
and the sister-in-law.

- They're in the conference room.
- What are we looking for?

Lies and guilt, Sweets. What else is there?

I was always worried something bad
was gonna happen to Bryce.

But I stopped worrying
when he started wrestling professionally.

All right. So as far as you know,

your brother put his criminal past
behind him?

Yeah. He, you know, loved the whole
leprechaun wrestling thing.

He quit drinking, made a living.

- You were close?
- We were twins,

but no, no, we weren't close.

Bryce was always a little jealous of Derek.

'Cause Derek was average-sized.

Yeah. I'd have been jealous, too,
if it worked out the other way

- and I got the short stick.
- No pun intended.

That's not funny, Agent Booth.

I tried helping Bryce out.
You know, got him jobs.

When did you last talk?

When Derek offered to testify
at his parole hearing.

- Offered?
- Bryce said he didn't need the help.

It wasn't like that at all.
The whole parole thing was a lock,

with or without me.

A lock?

Bryce testified against his cellmate
in return for parole.

- I think he was brave.
- It was stupid, Nicole.

Probably got him killed.

If you don't mind me saying,
neither one of you guys looks like a cop.

You look like a substitute teacher
and a fry cook.

A fry cook?

We're not cops.
We're professional interrogators.

- And nobody's a fry cook.
- The cops are in there.

Yes. In case you annoy us,
and we want an arrest made.

Any more cracks about fry cooks,

and I'll have them come in here
to rough you up!

Okay, okay.

So you and Bryce DaFonte were cellmates
for what, 16 months?

Yeah. I'm sorry for Bryce.

I liked him. Made the cell feel roomier.

We have information
that Bryce ratted you out,

so he would look good
for the parole board.

I never took that personally.

Little guy like that,
you gotta hold him to a different standard.

You were released what,
three months ago?

Paid my debt to society. Got a job.

- Road construction.
- Yep.

Did you ever work
in the Cleveland Park area?

- Why?
- Because that's where

your former cellmate was discovered.

- Twenty feet under the roadway.
- Well, I didn't put him there.

Hey, look, Bryce told them where to find
my pruno and dope stash, okay?

That's small beans.

Three days in solitary.
I'm gonna kill him for that?

All right, all right.

Me and Bryce cooked
that dodge up together, okay?

And there's no chance I was getting out
a day earlier than my full sentence

due to a spitting incident
involving the warden.

I figured, why not do my cellmate a solid,
and get him out?

And believe me, DaFonte wanted out.

- Well, everyone in prison wants out.
- Nah, not like Bryce.

He's talking about escape.
You know, he was highly motivated.

- So what was the big rush?
- What you think?

I think perhaps
a crisis of the heart and loins?

He got a "Dear John" letter from
his lady love, saying that she was

thinking about calling it quits on him.
The least I could do for my buddy.

Wasn't nobody waiting on me
on the outside.

So, my psychic

says that Brennan and Booth
are linked in a very profound way.

In order to eat that thing,
you're gonna have to dislocate your jaw

like an articulated python.

Yeah.

Tell me, though, have you noticed
any behavioral changes in Booth

since he woke up from the coma?

He's not as happy go-lucky
as he used to be.

It's like he's sort of sad.

Well, perhaps the brain tumor forced him
to confront his own mortality.

Booth confronted his mortality
plenty of times.

I think that that dream he had
about him and Brennan being married,

I think that he sort of misses that dream.

It's like he's homesick for that place
and those people.

You think Booth fell in love
with Dr. Brennan during a dream?

So do you, right?

Well, I'm a psychiatrist.
I'm not comfortable with answering.

No, you're a chef.

I am. As usual, you see the truth of things.

Look, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.

This is the most ill-conceived, sackless,
vomitous, gargoyle of gastronomity

I've ever encountered.
It's preposterous. You can't...

You know, you're really gonna
have to learn to enjoy things

the way that they are.

Well, perhaps you're right.

The remains were covered with
150 years worth of rubble.

That's a word I loathe.

Half-naked
dwarf wrestler gets killed,

and his body gets dumped
into some old hole in the ground.

Well, most of what he was buried in

and what I found around the remains
was tile.

Translucent, ceramic, vitreous,
dating back to the 1920s.

What was that?
Some kind of Turkish bath?

No, it's a pedestrian underpass.

Here. It collapsed in the '30s.

They just threw some rocks into it
and paved it over.

Wait a second. So what you're saying is

you think that the leprechaun body
was in that pedestrian underpass

when the sinkhole happened?

Yeah. Yeah. I mean, a guy his size,
there could've been a way through it,

especially with some digging.

That would've stretched
from here underground

to approximately
the other side of the street,

and then maybe another 20 feet east.

Cash for gold.

Three months ago, this place got robbed.

No sign of forced entry
to the doors or windows.

Alarm was cut from the inside.

Bad guys got off with bags of gold coins.

Well, we think the robber may have
been the victim in your sinkhole.

Well, I'll be damned.

The owners of this place
will be glad to hear that.

Fraud unit suspected it was an inside job.

- How much they lose?
- $120,000 worth.

- I think I found the point of ingress.
- Whoa!

You gotta be kidding!
Just thinking about it, I can't breathe.

Angela's sketch shows

the collapsed pedestrian walkway
comes five feet from this drain.

The victim was small and strong,
and he could've dug his way through.

That's gotta be what, 16, 18 inches?

Honestly, I can't breathe.

I got anxiety
thinking about a guy down there.

Come on, Bones, there's no way the victim
could get his shoulders through that.

He could've made it.
Mostly naked, in his lycra shorts.

We may even find a container of lubricant
down there.

Well, all we found were eight gold coins.

Oh, yeah,
classic accomplice rip-off scenario.

No honor between thieves.

What, I'm not allowed to chime in?
I'm a law enforcement professional.

The only markings we know for sure
came from before the sinkhole

are these three little nicks on his ribs.

Could he have been stabbed?

- Well, with what?
- The world's dullest knife?

Well, perhaps something
along the lines of a very dull hatchet?

To a little person, a hatchet
would be the equivalent of an ax.

Okay, assuming the accomplice
was already lying in wait,

surely he would've had the forethought
to bring a more suitable weapon.

- Like a gun.
- Or a giant sword.

Or a gun.

But the killer would've had to have been
an incredibly bad shot

to merely graze his or her victim

three times in such tight quarters.

Oh, I see. If he was reaching forward.

Or wrenched.

Or if he was actually hanging from his arm,
and the killer shot down from this angle.

One bullet fired from above,
grazing these three ribs,

deflecting, piercing the diaphragm.

And of course,
as an achondroplastic dwarf,

his organs would be more tightly
jammed together than an average person.

- This would be his liver.
- He'd have bled to death in minutes.

We found cause of death.

Yeah, there's some collateral damage
to Booth's brain here.

It would result
in the memory lapses, yeah.

But it doesn't explain
any of his other symptoms.

But I don't think Booth has brain damage.

Then what's his problem?

May I ask why you didn't publish
your book on Booth and Brennan?

What, is there a connection between
my book and Booth's marksmanship?

I believe you didn't publish it
because you're afraid

of how Brennan and Booth
would react to its conclusion.

My book concludes that Brennan
and Booth are in love with each other.

It's a scrummy conundrum, isn't it?

I believe that as a reaction
to the childhood traumas

of abuse and abandonment,
Dr. Brennan utilizes her intellect

to armor herself from intense levels
of emotion, like love.

- And Booth?
- Well, subconsciously,

he's sensitive to her vulnerability.

He knows that acting
upon his feelings for her

would amount to a kind of assault.

I couldn't agree with you more.

So, Booth not shooting straight is simply,

what, a manifestation
of his phallic frustration?

Yeah, he quite literally can't bring
his weapon to bear.

Do I even have the right
to publish my book

and make public what these two
can't even admit to themselves?

Good Lord, don't ask me. I'm just a chef.

Not a psychiatrist.

I gave up that game precisely so
I don't have to face that kind of dilemma.

Great.

Okay, look, we do know that Hodgins
found a.22 pistol near the body,

- it was fully loaded.
- It hadn't been discharged.

Yeah, I know that, Bones, okay.
I do work for the FBI.

So, has Gordon Gordon helped you
at all with your shooting problem?

He didn't see it as a problem.

Then maybe you don't have one.

Have you ever considered the possibility
that you might simply be getting older?

Men do tend to decline physically
past the age of 35.

Remind me again
how great I feel after talking to you?

Well, who else would always
tell you the truth?

Yeah, you know,
it does make me feel better.

It makes no rational sense, but it does.

Maybe I should start packing heat again.

- Packing heat?
- Yes, it's a colloquialism.

I'm quite a good shot.

Hey, if the leprechaun was shot,
then where would the bullet be?

Well, I assume somewhere
in the six tons of crap

Hodgins hasn't sifted through yet.

Wait, wait a second,
did you just call forensic evidence "crap"?

It's colloquial again. What do you think?

This is very nice.
I like it, and it shows that you're adapting.

I'm working on it. And joshing around, too.

Yeah.

I already admitted
that Bryce and I had a thing.

Hey, where's that hot FBI agent guy?

If I'm gonna be interrogated,
I want it to be from him.

That sweet little pistol you owned,
that went missing,

is this it?

Is that the gun that was used to kill Bryce?

No, but it was nearby.

Then, yeah, that's my pistol.

He didn't steal the gun from you.
You gave it to him

because you worried about his safety.

I'm not exactly the worrying type.

Hey, you wanna make out a little bit?

People watching from behind that mirror
kind of turns me on.

This persona she's projecting,
this little person cougar.

She's either masking emotional pain,
or overcompensating for guilt.

Maybe you should tell Sweets.

Believe me, if a chef can figure it out,

then a prodigy like Sweets
would've got there long before.

Tell me,

what's your theory on why Agent Booth
can no longer shoot straight?

He should practice more.

But perhaps, in conjunction with his
using the wrong foot to climb the stairs,

and his wrong hand to drink coffee,
he's closing the wrong eye when he aims.

Real marksmen keep both eyes open
when they shoot.

Well, that's what I get for using
Quigley Down Under as a reference.

So, Sweets told you
about the hands and the feet?

We're consulting.
Patient confidentiality is being maintained.

And I won't tell Booth that you've been
ratting him out to the FBI behind his back.

"Ratting out" is an accurate phrase,
but somehow it doesn't seem true.

Hmm. You've come quite a long distance
since we last met.

If you could now see a distinction
between accuracy and the truth.

I'm trying to help Booth.

I can be objective about his brain
and he can't.

Sometimes you have to help people
against their wishes.

I can't think of anything
I wouldn't do to help him.

Can we listen, please?

Yes.

Did you give Bryce the gun

because you knew
he was planning a robbery?

All I knew is Bryce told me he found a way
to make a ton of money fast.

- Who was in it with him?
- I don't know.

I think the reason you feel responsible

is that if you'd paid Bryce his fair share,
he wouldn't have gotten himself killed.

Bullseye! Well done.

Bryce didn't need money to impress me.

And it wasn't me that he was worried
about when he was in prison.

- Who was it?
- All I know

is that Bryce broke it off with me.

He said he had to get serious
with somebody else.

He said I wasn't enough woman for him.

What, why is he looking at us?

Jesus! It's about time, Sweets!
What took you so long?

Don't answer that, okay.
What did he get out of her?

I have no idea,
but the two of them are very excited.

- You wanna...
- I wouldn't dream of it, please.

Okay. Murder victim told Gidget
that she wasn't enough woman for him.

- So?
- Well, so it suggests that while in jail,

your victim was pining
for an average-sized woman.

Vocabulary? That is your evidence?

We subpoenaed the victim's
cell phone records.

The only people he ever talked to
were Gidget and his brother.

The victim's brother said
that they were estranged, right?

And the victim's brother's wife
is an average-sized woman, isn't she?

- You want us to handle this?
- No, no. I'll handle this one, boys.

- Why did you bring me here?
- We found Bryce right there.

He was crawling all the way over there.

Lugging his own weight in gold coins
through a tunnel,

probably about that wide.

He got out on the other end.
He was shot and killed.

Why is it that somebody
would do something like that?

Greed, bravery?

He was doing it for you, wasn't he, Nicole?

How long were you and Bryce
seeing each other

behind your husband's back?

Since always.

Since high school.

I wrote Bryce in prison,
and I told him that we had to stop.

But when he got out on parole,
he begged me to choose him.

Got it in his head that
to get me to himself,

he had to be a better provider
than his brother.

- Are you gonna tell Derek about us?
- No.

No, I'm not gonna say anything to him.
But I will tell you that

if you've been in love
with another man for 10 years,

your husband knows.

What I need to know is who was
helping Bryce out with his burglary.

I don't know.

I don't know.
Probably somebody he met in prison.

He said that he would buy me
anything that I ever wanted.

If I knew Bryce was stealing,
I would've begged him to stop.

See, Ms. DaFonte, when a man
can't have the woman that he loves,

he gets a bit crazy.

One brother, he died for you, right there.

The other one, your husband,
you put him through hell.

I still can't find a bullet.

Well, keep trying.

It could have been washed anywhere
by the water.

The guy's ring was nearly 30 meters away.

High school wrestling.

Now that has got to be the victim's, right?
I am back.

I'm king of the lab, right?

No. Not king of the lab.
This is not the victim's ring.

Achondroplasia causes
metaphyseal cupping at the joints,

resulting in large knuckles,
too big for this ring.

Well, then, whose ring is this?

Someone who went to the same
high school at the same time,

played the same sport,

but had average-sized fingers.

- We're good at this.
- Yeah, Bones. This is what we do.

We're the best.

Mr. DaFonte, thank you for coming in.

Yeah. So you got any news on my brother?

Do me a favor,
just put your hand out like this, please.

- What's going on?
- Mr. DaFonte, please.

Your hand, just like this.

When your brother came out of the tunnel,

you reached out and took his hand.

He thought the two of you
were working together,

but you knew why he wanted the money.

When you shot your brother,
the force partially dislocated his shoulder,

while the bullet traveled through the torso
in a fatal trajectory, grazing three ribs.

You pushed him back into the tunnel,
foot to face.

But he pulled off your ring.

You're under arrest.

Derek? Why?

Come on, Nikki. You know why.

- Let's go.
- You know exactly why.

So we found most of the gold coins
in the victim's brother's crawlspace.

I mean, most of them, not all of them.

Ah, so the oldest murder of them all, eh?

Brother slays brother. Cain and Abel.

Doc, tomorrow morning, I gotta be
on the firing line at 7:00 a.m. sharp.

So you have to fix my brain damage.

- You haven't got brain damage.
- Gordon Gordon,

they took out a brain tumor
the size of a melon ball out of my head.

I can't shoot straight.
I can't tell if people are lying.

I have to get Dummy books
just to do things.

I'm at a complete loss with stuff.

Not as a result of brain damage.

When you were in the coma,
you got a glimpse of another world.

Right, and how does
that help me aim my gun?

Temperance Brennan.

You're in love with her.

You're building a world around her,
a family.

We're not compatible.

She sees the world one way.
I see it the other way.

No, of course. It's absolutely ludicrous,

the idea of you two together.

But the heart chooses
what it chooses, doesn't it?

We don't really have any say in the matter.

She doesn't love me.
I would know if she loved me.

May I counsel patience on this front?
Hope and patience.

All right, so, about my marksmanship
certification, any advice?

Grow a set. Be a man. Step up!

She's your partner, for heaven's sake.

The job you do together
is highly dangerous.

She counts on you for protection.
So, you damn well better protect her.

So that's your big psychiatric advice,
just grow a set?

Indeed. When it comes
to a man and his gun,

a woman is the natural cure.

Take Dr. Brennan
to this shooting event of yours.

You won't fail in front of her. Trust me.

Dr. Brennan.

Hello.

Please, take a seat.

Oh. Well, why can't we
sit out in the restaurant?

Oh, no, Bones. This is a great honor
to sit at the chef's table.

- It's huge.
- But it's in the kitchen. It's hot and noisy.

It's a thing, all right. Just go with it.

So, Bones,

- would you do me a favor?
- Yes.

As long as it does not
involve me shaving my head.

You are making a joke.

- I'm becoming quite amusing.
- Yes, you are. It's very funny.

Honestly, will you do me a favor?

Yes. As long as
I don't have to shave my head.

A little advice on the humor.

Once the joke happens,
don't dog pile on it, just let it go.

Do try these amuse-bouche.
They may look like sperm on corn smut,

but I assure you,
they are magically scrumptious.

Be brave, my children. Make a foray.

"Cast off your shackles,"
et cetera, et cetera.

Abide by my exhortations to joie de vivre,

that you may be borne aloft
on the trembling wings of giggling angels.

Lovers come and lovers go

Once they lived, but now they're ghosts

Walking the streets they used to know
like shadows

Like shadows

Who can you trust in this place?

In whom can I put my faith?

How can I love without grace?

Shine a light on your face

Excellent, Agent Booth.

If you're real then show me now

Who you are

ENGLISH - US - SDH