All language subtitles for Instinct 1x11 - Blast From the Past

Previously on Instinct:
I want to go see a friend

who may be able to help.
Wait. I'll drive.

He works undercover.

I'll take whatever

you can get on the victims.

Who are you?

Where did you find out all this?

- Does it matter?
- Of...

It matters if I want to get a warrant

to back up these rumors.

You know things you're not telling me,

but these are my cases.

New York's Finest!

Joan has told me everything about you.

And about your hush-hush past.

Can the government really
create hurricanes?

Uh, no.

But if I was going to share

an intelligence secret with you,

I would totally do it
in a pancake restaurant.

Oh, the sourdough pancakes here
are amazing.

Do you want a drink?

- No, thanks.
- Dylan, I think...

I can help you.

I hope Joan explained, my reservations

have nothing to do with you personally.

And yes, I was talked into doing that

local TV news segment...

Mistake, small potatoes.
It devalues your brand.

I do not have a brand.
I do not want a brand.

And no offense...
I do not need a publicist.

I disagree.

Now, listen up, because this is

not-screwing-around Ashley
you're talking to now.

Bring it in.

Come on.

A little closer.

Right here, right here.

Stop.

You do not need a publicist.

You need the best publicist.

- I am talking about me.
- Yes, got that.

But my life does not need publicizing.

Look, the public deserves
to hear about their heroes.

That is why I have arranged

for New York magazine
to do a story about you.

Well, that's very impressive, but...

Did I mention you'll be on the cover?

Now do you want that drink?

Still no.

But I do have an idea
about that magazine story.

Bring it in.

I created a monster.

Now she's weighing in on the venue.

Oh, that has to stop.
This is your wedding.

You know my mom...
she needs to be the star.

She needs to be the star,
the costar, the understudy

and the guy in the lobby
who sells Milk Duds.

You should just keep her busy.

Give her something to do.

Lizzie, you may have just

come up with a way to save my insanity

that doesn't include vodka.

It's my pleasure,

and you owe me one.

And I'm paying up right now.

I'm putting you on the grade list.

What?

I'm recommending you for a promotion.

To second grade detective?

No, to flight engineer
on the space station.

Yes, to second grade detective.

You've closed some big cases lately.

Dylan shares in that.

Yeah, yeah, he's a genius,
but you are my best cop.

And it's not a favor. You deserve it.

Thank you, but I'm not gonna
celebrate just yet.

I could be stuck on that
grade list for years.

No, your name's already
on the chief's desk.

This is in the works.

Wow.

It does mean more responsibility.

I know. That's why I'm so excited.

Oh.

Lieutenant Gooden.

Any fatalities?

Okay, we're on our way.

Suicide bomber just blew
himself up in Battery Park.

You should get over there.

Dylan asked to be assigned.

Okay.

- Hey.
- Hey.

The bomb squad's nearly
finished its sweep.

You asked to be assigned this case?

No, I just called to offer my expertise.

Back in the day, my
study on suicide bombers

kind of made me a name in the
abnormal behavior community.

Hmm. Sounds like a fun bunch.

By the way, is there a subject
you're not an expert on?

Whale hunting? Soap carving?

As a matter of fact, soap carving

became popular in 1924...

- All clear.
- Thank God.

Okay.

Wallet and I.D.

Guess he wanted credit.

Ramzy Kharal, 25.

I'll call the Intelligence Bureau,

see if he's on their radar.

Name and appearance suggests
Middle Eastern descent,

but look at his face... clean-shaven.

Don't bombers shave in order to blend in?

Yes,

but most Middle Eastern bombers

have beards their entire lives,
so when they shave,

the lower part of their faces is lighter

from being deprived of the sun.

The color of Ramzy's skin is uniform.

That doesn't fit the profile
of a suicide bomber.

Neither does the fact
he was the only one killed.

Malfunction? Change of heart?

Hard to say, but even an attack
with limited casualties

can cause a devastating
psychological effect on a city.

- Did we find the detonator he used?
- Blown to bits,

so it's gonna take a while
to get any info.

He lives a few blocks away.
Hey, guys, don't leave.

We're gonna need a
sweep of his apartment.

Okay.

Wow.

Judging by all these materials,

I would say Ramzy was a ringleader

or a member of a cell,

because one suicide bomber
would not need all this.

Our bomber was a graduate
student at Columbia University.

Got his visa from the
American University in Cairo.

I studied Arabic there.

I really need to travel more.

I've never been east of Flushing.

So you think this is the beginning

of a wave of these attacks?

Hey, come here. Quick.

Today's date is circled, and
there are two sets of numbers.

What time did the bomb go off?

1:14.
- 1314.

Military time for 1:14 p.m.

What about the other four numbers? 1071.

Since we have date and time,
I'm guessing it's location,

but that's not enough digits
for GPS coordinates.

Unless we assume they're local.

Can we pinpoint a location

within the city using those

last four numbers as a suffix?

Oh, my God.

They're coordinated for Battery Park,

right where the bomb went off.

There's gonna be another attack today.

Yeah, at 1621... 4:21.

That's in 15 minutes.

Where's 4360?

The band shell in Central park.

If we find our guy,
we isolate and contain

until the bomb squad gets here.

Guy's slouching. Too relaxed.

- Gait's too loose, steady.
- The blonde woman with a case?

No, normal response to her environment.

3:00... walking too fast, hunched over.

Police! Don't move!
But I didn't do anything.

Now, listen to me. We are going to stand

in this position until
the bomb squad arrives.

You understand? Bomb squad?

- Are you okay?
- Yes, sir.

You all right? Oh, my God.

It's the woman we ruled out.

The woman I ruled out.

What did I miss?

Synced & corrected by -robtor-
www.addic7ed.com

Thank you.

Her name is Barbara Kramer.

She lived in Fort Washington.

How did I miss her tells?

She was behaving normally.

She stooped to help that child.

It's as though she switched
off her body's own reactions.

Bombers sometimes appear drugged.

They sweat. They have tunnel vision.

She displayed none of that. None.

We were supposed to have lunch together,

but she canceled.

Do you know why?

No, I have no idea.

I can't believe she's dead, and...

in this awful way.

Any recent changes in her behavior?

She was upset about politics.

She was ranting more,
but who hasn't been?

Was she under any stress?

Uh, her cheating husband
left her a year ago,

and she began worrying
that her playing was suffering.

Was she seeing anyone new?

You know, she hinted at it.

And she was rushing off a lot
after rehearsals, but...

she could be secretive.

She mostly kept to herself.

Did she ever mention a Ramzy Kharal?

Sorry. No, that doesn't ring a bell.

Did your brother ever
mention dating Barbara Kramer?

Barbara Kramer?

No, it doesn't ring a bell.

Ramzy never mentioned her name?

But if my brother
were romantically involved,

he probably wouldn't have told me.

I... I ask too many questions.

Since your brother arrived here,

have you had any cause for concern

about his friends or interests?

None.

He did start driving
for a rideshare company.

I can get you the name. Please.

And I worried about
all the strangers he drove.

But...

he said it's so expensive here,

and he didn't want
to call home for more money.

He felt my parents had done enough.

They were so proud of him.

Have you spoken to them?

Yes, they're on the first flight
out of Cairo.

My parents are such good, decent people.

They don't deserve this.

Don't do the magazine story.

Wow.

Your contacts in the publishing world

didn't take long to get on the phone.

I appreciate your concern,

but you're worrying about nothing.

Kandahar, Fallujah, Waziristan.

We've seen a lot together.

You used to be careful.

Are you comparing Pakistan's
lawless border region

with a magazine that did a cover story

about the city's best falafel?

I'm saying former CIA officers
don't hire publicists.

- You been spying on me?
- Yes.

She's not my publicist.

Two words:

Tony Collins.

Five words:

I have work to do.

Collins was careless.

Anything at our musician's apartment?

No maps, no explosives, no nothing.

We ran a check on Ramzy's
sister: squeaky clean.

Any contact at all between the bombers?

I haven't turned up a single text,

phone call or online signal between them.

So they avoided leaving
an electronic footprint.

But the calendar
is proof of a connection.

Barbara detonated her device
at the exact time and place

that we found in Ramzy's calendar.

Yeah, and ballistics says
the two bombs are identical.

Still nobody taking credit?
Intelligence Bureau's still

sorting through the chatter. So far, zip.

I suppose the one piece of good news

is the calendar you found.

The rest of the month is empty.

Let's hope it stays that way.

You sure your segment is airing tonight?

Past your bedtime?

I was excited about it,
uh, two hours ago.

Since then, I have seen
the three-day forecast,

the seven-day forecast,
a Mr. Food segment

and a story about a drunk guy who got

into an argument with a telephone pole.

I surrender. I'm turning in.

- Good night.
- Night.

Thanks.

Oh, guess what.

New York magazine

is doing a story about the squad.

- Get out of here.
- Yeah.

We're doing a shoot
tomorrow at the precinct.

A shoot? Wow.

And I thought, if they needed

any more photos, I would suggest Rafters.

You know, cops after work.

Maybe catch you behind the bar.

Yeah, uh...

- Yeah, I don't think so.
- It would be great publicity.

Well... I'm from the Midwest.

You know, we're not really as comfortable

with the limelight as you.

Wh-What do you mean?

Nothing. I'm just...

Are you saying
I am seeking the limelight?

Well, aren't you?

What are you talking about?

Okay, the man I married was a brilliant,

cagey psychologist.

Now you have a publicist?

Oh, I do not have a publicist.

It was a five-minute meeting.

Which led to this magazine story.

Which I'm hoping will include you.

I don't want my life on display.

You know what, Andy?

Anything you do, I am proud of.

Anything.

You have a good month at the bar,

I'm proud of your business acumen.

You have a bad month at the bar,

I'm proud of your resilience.

I don't care if you finish

the New York City Marathon
or the damn Jumble.

Stupid me to think
you would feel the same way.

Please.

Turn off the TV.

I'd hate to think my segment
would further enrage

your moral indignation.

Mind if I join you?

Wow.

Dylan's super special, secret friend

has come all the way to Forest Hills

for a slice at Ray's.

Three enthusiastic
Yelp reviews can't be wrong.

Actually, I've wanted to thank you

for proving Charlie's innocence.

Losing him was really hard,
but at least now I have peace.

It was my pleasure.

I need to ask a favor.

Shouldn't we be meeting on a park bench

or a bridge shrouded in darkness?

Even spies occasionally come in
from the cold for a hot slice.

Mm, somehow you don't strike me
as a pizza kind of guy.

I'm not.

My palate is quite refined.

- Need something, pal?
- Four garlic knots

- and a pepperoni pinwheel, please.
- Hmm.

So, this is not too public for you?

Being too public is not my problem.

It's your partner's.

That's why I wanted to talk to you.

Okay.

Dylan is being unwise
becoming a public figure.

It's dangerous.

Sounds like you should warn him.

I tried.

He didn't listen.

There was a former MI6 officer

named Tony Collins.

He wrote a tell-all,

began discussing his work on television,

did the whole circuit.

Became so distracted by the attention

that he stopped taking
proper precautions.

They found him floating in Hackney Brook.

You really think Dylan
is endangering his life?

Let's just say he's making me nervous.

You don't strike me as the nervous type.

Spies and nervous systems
have similar functions:

extract and process information

to determine an appropriate threat level.

And no, I'm not the nervous type.

So, when I feel this way,
it's usually for a good reason.

Dylan's a big boy, and, um,

I'm not in the habit of keeping secrets

from my partner.

Wait.

Just in case.

And, uh, if I were to call,
what would I call you?

Julian.

Ramzy and Barbara showed no warning signs

of being radicalized,
which leaves us nowhere.

Don't drive yourself crazy.

When the evidence from their apartments

gets here, we'll find a lead.

- When's it getting here?
- I don't want it there.

Hopefully by the time
your lunatic publicist

- wraps up this dog-and-pony show.
- Thank you.

- She's not my publicist.
- Don't tidy up too much.

Keep it real, grounded.

Not that grounded.

Get rid of any food
that is blue or moldy.

No time for second thoughts.
The brass love the idea.

- Look at you.
- Don't start.

This can only be good for your promotion.

You're a terrible whisperer.

Promotion? Okay, don't...

I'm fluent in seven languages, and I have

no idea what you're trying to say.

Okay, it's far from a done deal.

Can we just keep it...

Yeah, on the DL?

- Sure.
- Pardon me.

- Hi. Are you a Mennonite, dear?
- Um, no.

'Cause it wouldn't kill you to,
you know, take your hair down.

Maria says that with the, uh,
proper shading,

I look like a young Paul Newman.

Is there another Paul Newman
I don't know about?

Okay!

Let's line up, everyone.

- Oh!
- Oh! That's the stuff

from Barbara and Ramzy's apartments.

- Uh, conference room, guys.
- Uh-uh.

Get back in line, Batman and Robin.

Okay, uh, let's do this.

We have work to do.

- Okay, this is gonna be a long day.
- Excuse me, honey.

- Oh, sorry.
- We're on either side

of the man wearing more makeup than you.

Eyes forward, super cops.

One, two, three.

For a small apartment,

Ramzy sure had a lot of stuff.

Maybe CCU will have more luck
with their computers.

- I can't find anything.
- Check this out.

A prescription for antidepressants.

Wait.

This is fake.

The doctor's signature
is initials only: AWB.

And there's no license number.

This prescription is dated today.

Yeah, and Ramzy died yesterday.

And on the back, there's tomorrow's date.

What are you thinking?

Everything about this is phony.

A dosage of 150.8 milligrams?

That's nonsense. Why leave a fake dosage?

150.8.

Numbers. 1-5-0-8.

1508?

You think it's another clue?
Like the calendar?

Well, if it is, it's a clue that only

a doctor or a psychologist would know.

It also implies another
attack today at 3:08.

In less than four hours.

Barbara and Ramzy
were working with someone else.

This is an obscure way
to announce an attack.

Unless it's not the code
for the next bombing.

You think someone's playing with us?

Um, maybe I'm just grasping at straws.

No, you're not. Look at the address.

This is Ramzy's apartment. What the hell?

Why leave us an address
we've already searched?

Maybe we missed something.

Well, if there is a clue here,

it doesn't have many places to hide.

Nope.

Nothing.

Nothing.

The ceiling.

Yes, that's a ceiling.

No, but look.

Th-There's an "M."

What, that crack?

That's not a crack.

That was etched there, into the paint.

Why would someone etch lines
onto a ceiling?

Well, like you said,
maybe someone's playing with us.

Okay, but "M" is not a number.

It was in Roman times.

A thousand.

And it's next to the fan.

MX.

1010 in Roman numerals.

What location does 1010 correspond to?

Bethesda Fountain.

Okay, well, at least we have

a couple of hours notice this time.

- You better call it in.
- Hang on.

You want me to mobilize bomb squad, CRC,

CSU and ESU based on a scratch,

a ceiling fan and Roman numerals?

- I do.
- Are you crazy?

If this is a clue, how could anyone

be expected to solve it?

Look, maybe we're not dealing
with a terror cell.

Maybe we're dealing
with some kind of mastermind

who thinks in numbers
and can recruit followers

who will die for him.

You have to trust me on this.

Okay. Let's do this.

Thank you.

Remember, the color of the day is purple.

Everyone be careful and call out
anything unusual you see.

Stay focused
and watch each other's sixes.

2:00. Long black coat.

Male, 50s, long black coat, moving east.

- Right on time.
- Police! Hands! Let me see your hands!

Let's go! Let's go!
Don't move, sir! Don't move!

It's under my coat.

What?

- Who gave this to you?
- A friend.

Who's your friend? What's his name?

He gave me $50.

Oh, my...

It's 3:08.

Go.

One casualty. Just the perp again.

The blast radius
was about ten feet again.

Same small device.

I thought I had the right location.

Well, he obviously wanted us
to go to the fountain.

The guy with the note. It's okay.

- What have you got?
- A neighbor said

the guy got on his motorcycle,
started it, and boom.

What kind of a bomber

gets on a motorcycle, starts it,

and then blows himself up
in the middle of a quiet street?

I don't know.

What if the bombers aren't bombers...

...but innocents?

Strangers.

Unless he wasn't a suicide bomber.

Maybe he didn't know there was
a bomb in his saddlebag.

That would explain why Barbara
didn't have any tells

and Ramzy didn't fit
the profile of a bomber.

They weren't bombers.

They were victims.

Once ballistics is finished
rebuilding the detonators,

we'll be able to tell
if they were dummies.

So, if Ramzy wasn't part
of a cell, that means someone

went to the trouble
of staging his apartment.

Someone is...

Dylan?

This used to be Meacham Townhouse.

The Meacham Townhouse?
How do you know that?

Because I've been here before.

And I don't think this is a coincidence.

This is personal.

When I was 15, I was invited

to participate in a two-week program

for gifted students at Meacham Townhouse.

Dylan thinks the guy who ran
this program fits the profile

of someone who's capable of
carrying out these attacks.

What's his name?

Dr. Avery W. Beams.

AWB... the same initials we found

on the prescription slip.

Harris, Zack, find out all you can

- about this Dr. Beams.
- On it.

- Yes, ma'am.
- Bomb squad verified your hunch.

The detonators were dummies.

Which means that if it is Beams,

he was in the vicinity before each attack

in order to slip the device
into the victims' pockets.

And to detonate the bombs remotely.

So the other bomb sites

had something to do with Beams, too?

I...

I don't know.

Well, eat some spinach,

drink a damn sports
drink... I don't care.

Just do whatever you gotta do

to kick that giant brain of yours

- into high gear.
- I'll do my best.

Are you okay?

You seem a bit off.
I keep guessing wrong,

and every time I do, someone dies.

It's not a feeling that

Mr. Hot Shot Consultant is used to.

One question I haven't asked:

Why would Dr. Beams want to hurt you?

You were a kid. I don't know.

The program started out well enough...

before it took a turn.

Maybe it's because Beams
couldn't break me.

Break you?

Dylan, what kind of a program was this?

We found Dr. Beams' obituary.

Died 11 years ago. Not our guy.

Thanks. Uh...

Anyone else from this program
that would want to hurt you?

The only other people
I remember were kids.

Maybe this is a dead end.

We should keep working our other leads.

No. The initials? The townhouse?

We went down that path and came up empty.

Is it worth calling your super special,

- secret friend?
- No.

Okay.

Okay, let's go over Ramzy's
list of passengers,

see if he had any repeat customers.

And we should also
revisit the CCTV footage.

So, you get started on Ramzy,
and I'll head over to TARU.

Now, this would make a
great magazine cover.

Consultant for the police

working late after his shift is over.

Dedication.

I'm sorry if I surprised you.

- It's a nice surprise.
- I won't stay long.

I-I know you're probably busy, but, uh,

I also know you probably
haven't fed yourself.

Yeah, I don't have much
of an appetite right now.

I just feel like...

I'm completely useless.

Well, that's unlike you.

Still, takeout Chinese is
light on the stomach, right?

I mean, when my dad had
his gallbladder out,

they gave him Jell-O and
Cantonese barbecued pork.

Look, I'm... I'm really sorry
for what I said last night.

I got upset

because...

I haven't told you something.

The real reason I didn't want to be

in the magazine article is because...

I haven't told my folks
I gave up being a lawyer.

What?

The man who came out to his parents at 16

is too afraid to tell them
he's had a career change?

It was more than just
a... a career change.

I mean, when I passed the bar,
it was their proudest moment.

I was their son, the lawyer.

First lawyer in the family.

My folks worked their asses off

to put me through law school, so...

the last thing they want to hear
is that I threw

their tuition money
and my law degree down the drain

to do the same job as my Uncle Otis.

If they accept who you love,

they'll accept what you love.

That's... that is...
that's really beautiful, Dylan,

and completely wrong.

Well, just tell them
that you bought the bar

as an investment with all the money

from your fancy law firm.

Hmm?

You see, you're not completely useless.

You know, it's crazy, I...

I have always dreamt
of owning my own business,

and yet letting my parents down
is a lifelong fear.

You believe that? I am a grown man

whose childhood dreams are still
in a steel-cage death match

against my childhood fears.

Childhood dreams.

Not "MX." "MT."

Meacham Townhouse.

I am so sorry, Andy, but I've got to go.

Sorry.

Care for a drink?

No, thanks. Working.

I have to say I was surprised you called.

Yeah, so was I.

So, did you find anything?

I did, indeed.

In the late '80s and early '90s,

there was a bit of
controversy surrounding

a program for gifted students
at the Meacham Townhouse.

What kind of controversy?

I'm not sure,

but from what I was able
to piece together,

there was some kind of unethical
psychological experiment

conducted on unwilling teens.

How come I wasn't able
to find any of this?

It appears the test was conducted

in concert with the government.

Which is why the test files

and the participants'
names have been redacted.

Took quite a lot of digging to unearth

what little information
I was able to find.

The government? I think
I'll have that drink now.

Sorry I couldn't find more specifics.

Dylan knows the specifics.

Dylan was involved?

My God, was he one of the kids?

I don't know. He doesn't want
to talk about it.

And you think

Dylan is connected to the bombings?

Again, don't know.

The only viable suspect
died 11 years ago.

But whatever this is
all about, I'm pretty sure

it has something to do
with the experiment.

Hey, Dylan.

This won't hurt a bit.

No such thing as coincidences.

I know there aren't.

Tell me what happened.

You can trust me.

It was called The Whitford Project.

Psychology gone off the rails.

In what way?

Like I said, the first week
of camp was fun...

lectures, debates, academic competitions.

Then one afternoon
during the second week,

we were each given a partner.

Mine was a nervous, awkward kid...

like me.

And we were instructed

to spend every second with one another

and to share our innermost
hopes and dreams.

My partner said...

I'm gonna devise a comprehensive
theory of optimal processes,

win the Fields Medal, and solve
the Riemann hypothesis.

And I said...

Study all over the world.

Play with the Philharmonic.

Ride a motorcycle just like my father.

Just like our victims.

One a foreign student, one a musician,

and one on a motorcycle.

Same one as my dad had.

And Beams ran the test?

Yes.

He wanted to see how
much we could endure.

What the threshold was to break us.

This won't hurt a bit.

He monitored our reactions to stress.

What kind of stress?

He humiliated us.

Told us our partners
had belittled our dreams.

Undermined everything
we hoped to accomplish.

A 12-year-old writing a concerto
with the Philharmonic?

Why not a ballerina?

That was your partner's joke.

You know it's fully unrealistic,

right?

You're mediocre at best,
according to your partner.

Young man,

he's heard you practicing,

and he's thinks you're, well, deluded.

I don't believe you.

I was so sure it was Beams...

because he knew all my dreams.

But Beams is dead.

And he's not the only one
you told your dreams to.

What was your partner's name?

John Raymond.

His name is John Raymond?

Yes, and Raymond may have suffered

psychological damage from the experiment.

My guess is antisocial
personality disorder.

Whoa, whoa, don't tell me what you guess.

Tell me what you know.
He's a brilliant guy.

- Got his PhD.
- In mathematics.

Which he talked about
all the time when he was a kid.

He liked nothing more
than number puzzles.

And now he's talking to us... to Dylan...

- with numbers.
- Okay.

Still listening.

He taught at some top universities.

But the jobs never lasted very long.

He got poor evaluations or didn't

get along with his colleagues.

He bounced around...
Until a few years ago,

when he landed at a community college

- in Hudson Valley.
- Where he finally

published his opus
and was fired for plagiarism.

That's the trigger?
Dylan was the trigger.

The book he plagiarized
was Freaks, my book.

It seems the publicity

surrounding Dylan's book's release

coincided with Raymond's deterioration.

- Where's Raymond now?
- Uh, well, we have no idea.

He disappeared off the face of the earth.

No credit cards, no bank
account, no phone number.

I don't know where he is,
but I know where he's been.

The bomb site at the band shell.

He had to have been there

- to plant the bomb.
- What?

The one we profiled is John Raymond.

I was so busy looking for the bomber

I didn't see it was John.

It was 30 years ago.

This means he detonated
the bomb with a timer.

Yeah, so okay, we know
what he looks like,

but unfortunately, we don't know

where he's going to attack.

Oh, he was luring me in from the start.

He knew I'd want this case.

He blames me for destroying his dreams,

and now he is determined to destroy mine.

We should run any numbers
associated with Raymond's past

that could nail down
the time and location

of today's attack.

The attacks are aimed at Dylan,

so maybe the numeric clue is...
is personal to you.

We need a list of all your numbers:

social, faculty I.D., bank accounts.

Check the GPS coordinates 4753.

Steppingstone Park.

That's where we had recess.

11:23 a.m., Steppingstone Park.

That's where he'll be.

- Are you sure?
- Yes, yes.

We weren't allowed to refer
to each other by name

during the experiment.

We had to use our test subject numbers.

John Raymond's number was 11234753.

How do you remember that?

Because mine was 11234754.

1123... 11:23.

I'll mobilize snipers,
bomb squad and CRC.

And we have three hours to figure out

whose pocket Raymond's gonna
plant the next bomb in.

Oh, I think I know the answer
to that one, too.

You do?

There was one more dream
I shared with John.

Hello, John.

Sorry I didn't recognize you at the park,

but it has been quite a few years.

- Stay where you are.
- You, too.

Take your hands out of your pockets.

- You won't shoot me.
- No.

She would.

And they would.

I've got more than one bomb.

You didn't deserve
what happened to you, John.

But neither did those people who died.

It's Beams you should be angry with.

Who we should both be angry with.

I know.

That's why I killed him.

Told him it wouldn't hurt a bit.

I lied.

You once had dreams

to accomplish something big, John.

Something noble.

I have no dreams.

But I remember all of yours.

I know.

That's why you chose the baby carriage.

Because I once told you

how much I wanted to be a father.

Why do you get everything
while I have nothing?

I always believed in you, John.

You were the best
mathematical mind I ever met.

What do you think about the recent stab

at the Riemann hypothesis?

The proof seemed flawed to me, but I...

I can't say why.

Well, they got the zeta function wrong.

Then tackle that.

All you ever needed was time,

and now we can make that happen.

We'll get you the help
you need in a hospital.

But this is the best offer
you will ever get.

Take it.

Go, go, go!

- Get him out of here.
- Hands down.

So, I guess this collar will
clinch your promotion, huh?

I'll celebrate once it becomes official.

- Huh.
- Thanks a lot, jackass.

Hey, I had no control over...

What was that about?

Oh...

You fired your publicist, and we got

bumped from the cover.

Thanks a lot, jackass.

- There's a picture inside.
- Hmm.

Good.

Oh. She was right about the hair.

Oh, I can see why Fucci's upset.

He wasted $20 on a Moroccan
red clay mask for nothing.

The staple's right through his forehead.

You know, I never told my parents

about what happened in the townhouse.

Well, you were a kid.

You probably didn't trust
anyone had your back.

For years, I just assumed
the other kids were fine.

You don't need to blame yourself

for getting through that test unaffected.

No, I wasn't unaffected.

Just took me 30 years to find someone

I wanted to share the memory with.

So thank you.

I trust you've got my back.

So, how did your publicist take it

when you told her you wouldn't
be working together anymore?

She said, "That sounds great,"

and then asked if I'd be interested

in writing a cookbook.

She's not a great listener.

Well, maybe some more quiet
will be good for you.

Maybe.

Sweeping things under the rug
isn't the answer,

but neither is living
your life on display.

Well...

guess that applies to me, too, huh?

You'll find a way to break it to them.

Yeah. How about this? How about, uh...

"Hey, Mom, Dad,
remember that landmark decision

"you thought I'd author?

"Well, today the decision
I made was whether

the daily special should be
coconut shrimp or clam strips."

We are so lucky to be
able to do what we love.

Yeah.

John Raymond caused a lot of pain,

but he reminded me to be grateful

for the dreams I've been able to realize.

Only one left unfulfilled.

You think it's time?

What do you think?

I think we've been
talking about fatherhood

since we fell in love.

Maybe it's time.

Maybe it is.

So much for quiet in our lives.

Oh, God.

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