Original subtitles

You understand, Merritt?

With those kinds of numbers,

you're looking at the worst-case hypertension scenario.

You are not a doctor, Dad.

Actually, he is. Just not of medicine.

I don't need to be a physician to know what your kind of blood pressure means.

Aneurysm, stroke, living with some kind of compromised situation.

- You can weigh in anytime. Anytime. - Weigh in?

There's enough weight already.

Listen, I'm making, uh, soup and Parker House rolls.

I'm here busy with my shit.

I hope it's the ones with everything bagel seasoning.

- Those are good. - Honey, this is not a...

Okay, look. I'm not fucking around here.

Your internist insisted we confront this.

He said your physical showed someone flirting with catastrophe.

There's so much to life.

You cannot throw it all away, Merritt, please.

Okay, this is not one of your graduate philosophy seminars, okay?

Do not speak to me in that "dear students" pained tone.

Don't do that.

I'm sorry I patronized you.

I'd like you to consider going somewhere. Some residential treatment program.

Montana? Hawaii?

A fat farm? You want me to go to a fat farm? Really?

Call it what you will.

I'm looking to help you reset. This is not about me.

This is about you being uncomfortable with the way I look.

- Uncomfortable with-- - These rolls came out great.

Uncomfortable with the way you look?

I... You don't... Darling, you don't get it.

I'm uncomfortable with looking at you killing yourself.

I don't want you to die.

You know what?

This is feeling like fat-shaming. It's making me feel awful, by the way.

I'm gonna die now? I'm dying now.

I'm dying now.

Okay. How's that? Hmm?

Dying? Please.

I guess that went well.

Thank you, thank you. Just... Thank you for helping.

Marshall.

In the history of the human race,

nobody has ever been able to persuade somebody else to give up their vices.

And that's where you arrived at philosophically, is it?

Mmm.

I know being a cop has fundamentally altered your worldview,

but this cynicism, your fatalism, it's...

it's corrosive.

Or it's protection. Ding, ding, ding.

Is the drinking protection too?

Because you're turning from a pastime into a profession.

You know what? Maybe we should get a family rehab plan.

Then we can get it for the food and booze

and sex addiction.

Huh?

You thought I didn't know about your little side action?

Huh?

I can smell the side piece tail on you.

- Look, look... - I can smell it.

...you're drunk.

You're drunk and you're talking out your head.

You don't know what you're saying.

I had you followed.

I am a detective with foot soldiers at my employ.

Lois Loyalists.

They even got photographs.

You at the Starburst Motel, at the Happy Ho Inn,

which is a great name, by the way.

But yeah.

Caught you in a lie.

And you been lying to me for quite a while.

You want some soup?

In the face of your commitment to your job,

which is more obsession than occupation,

and to your alcoholism, which does actually seem like a full-time job,

both of which shut me out,

do you blame me?

Oh, come on now. Marshall, we took vows.

Sickness, health, better, worse.

Don't you teach a goddamn postgraduate seminar

on ethics for the modern world?

You're almost too cruel to fight for,

but I would like your help

in somehow holding this family together. I...

I wish we could. I wish we could do that.

But that ship has sailed.

So I guess what I'm saying is get the fuck out.

I still love you sometimes.

And yet I pray sometimes

that I would get a phone call informing me that you died.

I hope you don't regret those words when I do.

Why would you waste those crocodile tears outside his room?

He should see them.

See that you miss him desperately. See that you care.

You could even pretend to have faith that he'll recover.

Act a bit.

Oh. What's this? Pistols at dawn?

You have a very mistaken impression of me.

So I'ma kick your ass,

so all of this habit of disrespecting me comes to a fucking end, bitch.

Oh, no, no, no. No, no, no. There's no fighting here.

No, we have security mere meters away.

And should you even touch me,

they will break every last bone in both your hands,

and then you'll be arrested, and irony of ironies,

chained to a bed.

See?

So, Detective, I would suggest going down to the cafeteria

and gulping down a few black coffees,

or whatever your favorite alcoholic beverage is for calming your nerves.

Go on, dear. Go on.

Ta-ta.

What the fuck is going on in here?

Excuse me?

I am giving your poor husband a sponge bath.

What in the depths of your filthy mind do you actually think is happening here?

You poor woman. You're really not well.

You're a sicko. I actually think you're on the edge of something.

Well, you clean him, then. You clean him.

Clean him up!

You're more than welcome to do it yourself

should you decide to bestir yourself out of your dipsomaniacal torpor.

I know a sexual predator when I see one.

I know that look in your eyes.

I put away so many motherfuckers like you.

Mmm. Well,

maybe you need to be admitted, Officer, hmm?

To a psych unit.

I pity you. I understand that the stress you're under is... It's terrible.

These murders,

your incompetence, the hopelessness.

Is it breaking you?

You know what's breaking me?

It's you goddamn doctors and nurses who got so much of this shit wrong.

You didn't even see the pandemic coming, did you?

You didn't see any of it happening.

You know who did? I did. I saw everything.

I saw it all breaking down.

But instead of paying attention to your goddamn job,

here you are jerking off a man that's in a coma.

Well, then move him. Move him.

Move him to a warehouse for vegetables.

Yeah, I mean, believe you me, we could use the bed.

I'll call the transport for you. There's a lovely place.

If you can ignore the smell of shit and cabbage

and staff who can't be bothered to lift a finger

'cause it might interfere with their backgammon game.

I'll even sign the discharge notice.

"Patient's psychotic wife has accused me

of masturbating her husband while he's in a coma."

I will move him. I'll move him.

You won't. You haven't got the courage of your convictions.

You're terrified.

You have no idea how to handle this. None at all.

You're weak.

Behind that charade of a tough exterior

is a broken, self-medicated woman

who has no idea how to handle this case

or care for her husband.

Go fuck yourself.

Here's the soap, dearie.

He hasn't quite climaxed yet, so why don't you finish him off?

Do you realize how loud...

So this nun, Sister Megan, she's nuts.

She loves murder.

Look, the way she writes about these cases is like fan fiction.

Okay. Girl, it's 4:00 a.m. You're gonna wake up the Connors next door.

The Connors are not even in town. They're at the time-share in Mazatlán.

Won't be back till the fall, if ever.

It's like everyone in this town is abandoning it like rats on a sinking ship.

So, what is it?

You're listening to Dad's favorite record. You miss him?

So this nun...

Okay, the way she looks,

she looks like a cross between a sparrow and a Manson girl, I shit you not.

Mm-hmm.

Mmm.

Mm-hmm.

Why buy the ham if you're gonna judge anyone who eats it?

I'm an ambivalent detective.

I'll say.

What, you just gonna sit here and drink all night?

You gonna sit there and eat all night?

Seriously though, Mom.

You're not ready to retire?

- Uh-uh. Mm-mmm. - You should retire.

Maybe go to rehab.

Oh, no, baby. I have never needed that less.

I am... I'm in my zone.

I'm invigorated.

I'm gonna catch this killer.

Maybe after that I'll hang up my spurs.

But in the meantime, if anything...

the booze makes me sharper.

Makes me see things clear.

See, I don't drink to escape.

I drink to envision it. To manifest a solution. Mmm.

In fact, guess what?

It's almost like the less sober I am, the more clearer I see.

Mmm.

What a coinkidink.

I feel the same way about food.

Touché, little one.

I don't know, Mom.

To me, it sounds like this killer is taunting you.

Well, maybe.

But not as much taunting as trying to take down western civilization.

Like a challenge to grace.

Like, maybe the killer knew the people he killed from the university.

Like some sick student who, who hated...

who hated the radiologist and his nutritionist wife.

So much so that they did the unthinkable to the entire household.

Someone who felt hurt by one or the both of them.

Dang.

I'm gonna follow that track.

All the DNA? Is there anything, any sample from outside the house?

The front door, sidewalk, walkway? Blood that hasn't been sequenced yet?

Something that doesn't match our bodies.

If that's the case, it's probably our guy.

There was a lot of cutting done in this house, Jack. With a scalpel.

Scalpels are messy.

So it's easy to injure yourself.

Maybe... Maybe our guy left his blood behind.

Listen up. Look for what is hiding in plain sight.

You might say, "This is more of our victim's blood."

That's not necessarily the case.

More cases have been solved with chameleon clues.

A cigarette ash from some brand leads you down some road.

All roads, light all roads up.

Let's do it.

Let's go, fellas.

Did I interrupt vespers or something?

Vespers means "evening" in Latin, Detective.

You see, the sun is still shining, so no.

How can I help you today? Actually, I'm thrilled you're here.

I wanted to run something past you.

The notion that the killer's connection to the family he slaughtered

could be the university.

Yeah? Really?

Wow. That seems wrong to me.

- Why? - Come with me.

I think you're barking up the wrong tree.

I made this to help clarify my reporting.

The crime scene photos you let me borrow were very helpful and informative.

I'm looking for links, like on Dateline.

Have you ever watched that show? I'm obsessed.

No.

My personal conviction is you are thinking about this in the wrong way.

It's not anybody who knew them.

They were maybe stalked, sure, chosen, but not known.

Our killer is well past day-to-day functional life.

Not a student or professor.

How do you know that?

My gut tells me. And you're not listening to yours.

No. You aren't seeing the scale of it.

This is a calling card to live in an apocalyptic reality.

These murder tableaus mean something profound.

This killer is sermonizing, proselytizing,

telling a parable, preaching.

Look at this. They are saying, "It is here. It has come.

Glorify me. Shake at my splendor."

He sees himself as God.

You can't dismiss the fact that this could be an academic. I mean--

You think good old-fashioned police logic will help you?

The world is different now. No. No.

These are religious statements.

He is telling you that nothing is sacred and nobody is safe.

Look, I have cleared over 400 cases

in my long, long, tired-ass career as a detective--

You're lost. I am not lost. I get it.

I get what he's trying to achieve. His testimony.

To understand this monster, you must reach

the ecstatic.

O God, come to our aid.

O Lord, make haste to help us.

Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit,

as it was in the beginning, is now, and evermore shall be,

world without end.

Amen.

Okay.

So, I wanna talk a little bit to you all because, hey,

it's sort of what I do best,

and what can I say, I like hearing myself speak.

I have hubris, but I also have faith.

One is bad, one is good.

But my faith tells me that I can be better with time.

My faith also tells me that the spirit of goodness in our community can prevail.

Those of us who believe in firearms, which, well, hey,

that's most of us in this crowd.

We keep them close at hand, loaded with hollow-point ammo, am I right?

- Yeah. - Yeah.

Lean into this.

Guns are fine.

So are baseball bats and axes. So are machetes and flamethrowers.

But faith, faith is as strong as a hollow-point round.

So let's take care of each other.

Neighborhood watch is great,

but neighborhood prayer is astounding.

Lock your doors,

but keep your hearts open.

Let's, uh, be here together for one another.

That is how we will survive this evil in our midst.

And now back to our regularly scheduled vesper hymn,

"There Is Power in the Blood."

♪ Would you be free From the burden of sin? ♪

♪ There's power in the blood Power in the blood ♪

Careful, now.

Mmm. Oh. Oh, wow.

These are

orgasmic.

Are they, now? Really? Orgasmic, Sister?

Hey. Wasn't always a nun.

You weren't always a priest.

According to my tip-top reporting, when you were younger,

weren't you a personal trainer?

Yeah.

But spiritually, before the seminary, I was always a priest.

It was all I ever wanted, saving people's lives.

At first I thought maybe I'll be a surgeon.

But then I thought, that's just plumbing.

I want to remove the cancer from their souls. So...

So here we are.

Saving souls and doing the Lord's work in a sick, sick world.

And getting sicker by the day.

And you do it so well. Being a priest, I mean.

Our parishioners love you. You know that, right?

You offer a realistic vision of hope.

I gotta say that your pieces about these murders and the religious aspects of them,

they've got people coming to services.

Attendance is up all over the county.

The archdiocese is incredibly impressed with you.

I might want you to speak to the congregation.

Oh.

I would be happy to.

After I solve this case.

I can smell this creature. I can sense him just out of sight.

How great for the church that would be.

The church as salvation, literally, protector.

Right? Wouldn't it?

The story's on fire on our website. Mostly conjecture, conspiracy theories.

Some people are likening it to the Ripper Crew?

The Chicago Rippers?

- You think this is Satanists? - Yes, I do.

The mechanics of this are so elaborate

that a coordinated effort would make a lot of sense.

There's a great documentary online about the Rippers

that I can send it to you if you'd like.

Father,

you're not a true crime fanatic, are you?

Well, I know you are.

I think that all of these crimes, they share an element of--

A search for God.

- Yes. But also a summoning-- - Of Satan.

Yes. Yeah, that's... That is exactly right.

Is that why you're drawn to them?

I tell myself that I only watch this stuff out of concern for the victims, sympathy.

Um, but the truth is, these crime shows, podcasts...

I have a bit of a morbid fascination.

Own it.

Look, I mean, I have a favorite serial killer, for heaven's sake.

So do I. Who's yours?

You go first.

- Ed Gein. - Ah.

- The OG. - Loved his mother so much

that when she died, he tried to make a mommy suit out of women's bodies

that he could crawl into and be her.

He had so many different colors, I mean...

So who's yours?

Sister Mariam Soulakiotis.

A serial killer nun.

That's so right for you.

High up in the mountains of Greece,

a monastery in a pine forest in the clouds.

She runs the joint and invites people with TB to come for the cure.

But over a hundred folks die of negligent homicide

because she offers no real cure, just the elevation.

And then she kills many more

after torturing them and getting them to donate their riches to the church.

Spinsters, widows. Money she keeps for herself.

Ends up rich and nutso.

And still the nuns in that monastery, to this very day, insist she's a saint.

The first home invasion,

they cook and eat the dad?

Jesus, the holy Father incarnate, says, "Eat of my flesh."

The flesh of the Father.

- Luke 22, the Last Supper. - Okay.

Then, the next one, crucifixions.

And the blood? Draining the bodies?

A reference to Leviticus?

"It is the blood that makes an atonement for the soul."

Draining the blood in an effort to take their soul.

Right, right. That's right on.

It's the same idea as what he... they did to the bodies.

So they cannot walk with Christ in eternal life.

It's death, but worse than death.

Ultimate nothingness.

Spiritual void.

They found sulfur too at the last scene.

Sister...

theft is a sin.

The judge shall cause him to lie down, and to be beaten before his face,

according to the measure of his wickedness, by number.

Then it shall be, if the wicked man deserve to be beaten,

that the judge shall cause him to lie down, and to be beaten before his face,

according to the measure of his wickedness, by number.

Then it shall be, if the wicked man deserve to be beaten,

that the judge shall cause him to lie down,

and to be beaten before his face,

according to the measure of his wickedness, by number.

Lois, I'm going to press.

There's an angle. I'm not sure it's right, but I'm not sure it's wrong either.

I owe it to our readers to at least mention it.

Hit me.

- Satanism. - Satanism?

The symbolism is impossible to miss in both of these incidents.

You're wrong on this. Don't write anything yet.

We found blood drops on the sidewalk. We got a hit.

What? Who is it?

A guy named Sullivan Firkus.

He was an organ harvester. Racked up dozens of bodies in the '90s.

Sold 'em for parts on the black market.

That's really amazing.

Horrible. I mean, so... Wow.

He used to kidnap refugee kids. Pull 'em from war zones.

Served 21 years. Got out nine months ago.

Must've started planning his comeback first thing.

He's staying with his mother.

Don't release anything yet, okay?

I am gonna go on record, and I want you to break the story.

Thank you. But, Lois, why are you helping me?

I'm not helping you. I'm using you.

Maybe your church is onto something,

using these killings to get lapsed believers back into the pews.

Hell, maybe nonbelievers.

Like you. I gotta go.

Copy. Going silent on property.

Clear.

Clear.

Clear!

Clear!

Clear!

Detective.

Get down here.

Wake up.

What happened?

You look shaken. Tell me. Tell me everything.

What is that?

It's nothing, it's small, I tripped.

Ladies, what can I do you for?

What's this lychee cocktail? Sounds yummy.

Vodka, coconut water, lychee juice, lime juice.

People in the base love it.

I'll have one. Low?

Club soda, lime. Hold the booze.

- No shot of vodka in there, Detective? - I'm fine, Harv.

Off the booze, babe?

I am trying to stay sharp, Sister.

Why?

I'm losing it. My theory wasn't right, my picker's off.

And that's all I have left.

Lois, tell me about the crime scene. Describe it.

It was staged.

Sullivan Firkus's blood, the DNA, it was all left there for us

at the trap house slaughter.

Firkus? He was the first killing.

He'd been dead for weeks.

Left there for us to find.

A warning.

Wake up.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

"You are not a God who delights of wickedness."

Wake up. Wake up.

Wake up.

"Evil may not dwell with you.

The boastful shall not stand before your eyes.

You hate all evildoers.

You destroy those who speak lies.

The Lord abhors the bloodthirsty and deceitful man."

Or does he?

Psalms, chapter five, verse five.

Yes, I know you know your Bible. I looked it up. But what's it about?

"The Lord abhors the bloodthirsty and deceitful man."

See, abhors. Hates. It says God can hate.

Which is very powerful.

Hatred as a force for good.

The killer left a calling card.

He left his name, written in a beautifully elaborate script.

What's his name?

Grotesquerie.

"I belong to those who have troubled the sleep of the world."

And then, "May all your dreams come true."

I don't recognize that.

Any other evidence?

No.

I'd like to see the crime scene photos when they're developed.

Since we're in this together now, and no one else seems to be helpful to you.

Were the bodies this time arranged in a biblical tableau?

If they were, I didn't recognize the symbolism.

Maybe I'll have better luck.

Dreams, hatred, lessons, sermons,

hallucinations, fevers, serpents.

You have to start looking at what the philosophy behind these murders is, Lois.

That's how we'll catch him.

Hey, aren't you married to some philosophy professor?

Now, he can't exactly help me out with this, can he?

Come on. Sister, give me something I can go on.

Someone in the clergy.

Maybe not Christian, perhaps some odd offshoot.

Pagan or... I don't know. There's so much.

There's the Temple of the True Inner Light

which believes that psychoactive substances--

cannabis, LSD, mescaline, psychedelic mushrooms and others--

are the true flesh of God.

The organization also believes that

all religions are based upon the psychedelic experience.

Sister, I am a very tired woman.

What are you saying?

Unlock the dream, solve the crime.

Thank you.

Good golly Miss Molly, this beverage is a near-religious experience.

Three fingers, Chopin vodka, on the rocks.

Hi, Mom. Put that thing away! It's me.

Merritt, please.

Don't do that.

At least until this fucker is toast.

Are you okay?

No. I am not okay.

When I'm done, I'm selling this house.

Sell the house? What about Dad?

I'm gonna move somewhere gorgeous. Like up in Big Sur.

Y-You're welcome to come.

Th-The water's rough, but the drama is everything.

That is the only kind of drama I can take after this.

So...

This was at the crime scene today.

You think you can do anything with it?

You being good at puzzles and games, you got that from me,

but I'm stumped.

You think you can open it?

Hmm...

Let's see.

I don't know, Mom. This box is not functional.

No seams.

No openings really, I mean...

Yeah, nothing.

Maybe it doesn't mean a goddamn thing.

Nothing at a murder scene means nothing.

It all means something.

Okay, well...

I'm going to bed.

Good night.

♪ Can't you hear that pitter-pat, baby ♪

♪ The happy tune is your step ♪

♪ Life can be so sweet ♪

♪ Life can be so sweet ♪

♪ Life can be so sweet ♪

♪ Life can be so sweet ♪

♪ Life can be so sweet ♪

♪ Life can be-- ♪

Yeah?

Yeah... Okay.

Where?

Is this what people did when they first saw the work of Michelangelo?

Of Caravaggio?

Sit in stunned silence?

In shock and awe?

I suppose they did.

Well, this biblical positioning is quite easy to decipher,

if I do say so myself.

The Last Supper, Sister. But for whom?

You? Me? All of us?

I knew the Jesus figure. He touched me, my heart.

I used to give him money to buy food, although he probably used it to buy meth.

We think... We know these 12 people were homeless.

Unhoused.

Point is, they were hunted.

Preyed upon.

But not prayed for.

The craven mind behind this, touched by genius for sure.

This Grotesquerie.

Lois?

What are you going to do now?

Me?

Sister, I am going to go home and drink.

Yeah.