CSI: Crime Scene Investigation (2000–2015): Season 12, Episode 8 - Crime After Crime - full transcript

♪ ♪

♪ ♪

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...

little boy.

Specifically...

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.

♪ 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.

See, you stand in front
of a mirror, lights out,

you say her name
three times...

and then 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.