All language subtitles for Elementary (2012) - S01E05 - Lesser Evils (1080p AMZN WEB-DL x265 RZeroX) REPACK

How do you
know this guy again?

First time we've met, actually.

Bit odd, I know.

Postmortem bruising experiments

are more of
third date activity.

No, I meant
the attendant.

You said he's a friend of yours.

We frequent the same
beekeeping chat room.

He has an impressive collection
of Caucasians.

Species of bee.

Course it is.

This is
important work, Watson.

It's crucial to my work

as an investigator.

These nameless
individuals agree,

which is why they have donated
their bodies to science.

Now help me roll this one over,
so I can try a chokehold.

I did say you were free not to
join me for these experiments.

I know.

It's hardly surprising
that being in a hospital

makes you uncomfortable,

you being
a disgraced surgeon and all.

I'm fine, okay?
You've had your arms crossed

for 13 of the 15 minutes
that we've been here.

It's a classic
self-comforting posture,

an attempt to neutralize
the distress signals

being sent by
your limbic system.

Of course, it is possible
that your stress

is subconscious and you really
do believe that you're fine.

But given that your eyes
are doing that thing they do

when you lie, I sincerely
doubt that's the case.

- I'm not lying.
- Doing it again.

Okay, I go where you go,
remember?

My comfort doesn't
factor in here.

If it did, I would not
have bought tickets

to the Arms and Armor
exhibit at the Met today.

Yes, they're displaying
new examples of lorica squamata.

Should be quite fascinating.

Just keep an eye on the clock.

If we don't leave in 20,
we're gonna be late.

Thank you, Bruce.

Good luck with
the new hive.

This body--
when's it being autopsied?

Never. Funeral home's
picking him up soon.

Died about an hour ago.

From a heart attack.

Yeah. How'd you know that?

There's a tiny blue dot
on the patient's head,

just below the hairline.

That's a tattoo used to
target radiation treatment,

which means the patient
had brain cancer;

blood clots are
a common complication.

He threw a clot, which led
to a pulmonary embolism,

which led to a heart attack.

Huh. We're in agreement
on the heart attack.

As to how it happened,
you're completely off base.

What room was he
in when he died?

Um, 704.

Where are you going?

The heart attack was
intended to look natural,

but it was induced
with epinephrine.

You've got it backwards.

Epinephrine is adrenaline;
it's given in all cardiac codes.

That's why it's perfect.

Excuse me.
The man who died in this room--

was there anybody with him
when the code thingy went off?

No.

Sir, that room
is being...

Stop cleaning immediately.

Don't touch anything else.

Who are you?

You should
probably take care of that

before somebody
slips and falls.

What is wrong with you?

How about you explain
what's going on

before he lets himself
back in?

Note the mark
on the dead man's finger.

Care to identify it?

It's ischemia.

Tissue death due to constriction

in the blood vessels
in the elbow.

Probably caused by the
epinephrine going into his arm.

And if he only received
the epinephrine during the code,

after his heart had stopped...

It wouldn't have had time
to cause the ischemia.

So, as far as
what's going on, Watson,

we're investigating a murder.

♪ Elementary 1x05 ♪
Lesser Evils
Original Air Date on November 1, 2012

== sync, corrected by elderman ==

♪

Sir, please open the door!

We should let them in.

We can explain.
While we explain,

they will ruin
our crime scene.

Lend me your former
expertise, come on.

The nurse said the victim
was alone when he coded,

but epinephrine
is fast-acting.

So, how did our killer
buy himself time to escape

before the onset of
the heart attack?

Well, if he injected
the epi into the I.V.

and then lowered the rate
on the infusion pump,

he would have at
least ten minutes

before the
patient coded.

It appears to be set
at 40cc's an hour.

That's just basic maintenance
fluid-- water, dextrose.

There's no reason it should be
slower than 100cc's.

Someone did turn the pump down.

Then we have
our method.

All right, we're coming in!

Sherlock, they're gonna
break down the door.

Yeah, well, saves us the
bother of opening it.

I can live with missing
the squamata at the Met,

but I'd rather
not get arrested.

We're coming in!

Gentlemen, could one of you
point me in the direction

of the administrator's office?

This is ridiculous.

We're wasting
valuable time.

Just be glad the captain
got here when he did.

You could've ended up
in the psych ward.

Sure you'd have
been devastated.

Joanie?

Carrie, hi.

I didn't know you
were working here.

It's been, what,
about a year and a half?

Isn't this a small world?

Carrie, this is my
friend Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, this is
Dr. Carrie Dwyer.

- Hey.
- We used to work together.

Interesting that she didn't
refer to you as her friend.

Probably because of
your falling out.

You call her by
a familiar nickname and yet

you haven't spoken
in a year and a half.

What was it
that drove you two apart?

A man, job?

Failed sapphic dalliance?

Fingers crossed
for the last one.

He's got a form
of Tourette's.

Are you interviewing for
the spot in Cardiothoracic?

No, actually,
I'm done with medicine.

I thought your suspension
was only for a couple months?

It was.

I decided to move on.

Holmes.

It was good seeing you again.

Yeah, you, too.

Holmes, Ms. Watson,
this is Mr. Sanchez.

Administrator, correct?

Aka the guy who's still not
convinced he shouldn't

press charges against you for

barricading yourself
in one of our rooms.

And what's your role here?

Do you reach things
off high shelves for this one?

I'm Dr. Baldwin, I'm
the Head of Surgery.

And you were treating
the dead man?

No, but seeing as
he was pre-surgical,

it does fall under my
departmental purview.

All right, here's how things
are gonna shake out here.

Once you apologize
to Mr. Sanchez...

Apologize? I alerted him
to a murder at his hospital.

Once you've apologized
to Mr. Sanchez,

he'll release the
body to our M.E.

and allow CSU full
access to the room.

That's it?

You should
count yourself lucky

you're getting that much.

We need the dead man's name,

access to his medical records.

It would be a flagrant violation
of HIPAA guidelines.

Not to mention
the patient's privacy.

He's dead; do you think
he's worried about his privacy?

Holmes.

Can't believe I had to apologize
to that pencil-pusher.

Would you have preferred
he press charges?

Why are you in such a hurry?

We need to find
the woman.

The one who brought the victim
coffee before he was murdered.

There were two coffee
cups in his trash.

One of them had lipstick
on the lid.

Obviously a woman brought him
coffee shortly before he died.

- You think she killed him?
- It's possible.

At the very least, she might
be able to tell us his name!

But we don't know
anything about her.

No, but Dave might.

Who's Dave?

It's from a place
called Think Coffee.

The barista,
Dave, put his name

and number on the back.
Number's smudged,

so we can't call
him, unfortunately.

We'll just have to
find him at work.

Well, how do you know Dave was
a barista and not a customer?

Well, the receipt says she was
charged for two small coffees,

she received
two large.

Dave was flirting.

Tall half-skinny,
half-two-percent, extra hot,

split quad shot latte
with whip.

These coffee orders-- the Magna
Carta was less complicated.

Quite informative running into
your former friend, Carrie.

You'd allowed me to assume
you were no longer

permitted to practice medicine.

I'm not. I let my
license expire.

But that was your choice.

I hadn't realized

quite how traumatic it must
have been, losing your patient.

It's no small thing,
walking away from a career

requiring 12 years of training.

It's pretty hard to be a
surgeon when you freeze up

every time someone
hands you a scalpel.

I just didn't trust
myself anymore.

What can I do
for you folks?

Help us return this
to its rightful owner.

I give out my
number a lot.

Got to be in it to
win it, you know?

Speaking of which,
can I interest you

in a complimentary chai?
No, thanks.

The receipt indicates
she was here

at 8:35 a.m.,
wearing deep red lipstick.

Oh, yeah, the blonde.

Cleavage, tight
white skirt, heels.

And her perfume.

I mean, how often do
you meet a sexy doctor?

How do you know
she was a doctor?

She was wearing a white
lab coat under her jacket.

Ms. Cleavage is
not a doctor.

Of course she wasn't.

No doctor would wear her
lab coat out of the hospital.

Nor would she wear revealing
attire or heavy perfume,

which could trigger a
patient's asthma attack

or chemical sensitivity.

The lab coat is a bit
confounding, though.

Actually,
I don't think it is.

This chain only has
two stores in New York City,

so we have a 50/50 shot

of finding our
blonde here.

Try one in one.

I can't believe Trent's dead.

How exactly did
you know Mister...?

Kelty, Trent Kelty.
We were neighbors.

A few months ago, he told me
he was having trouble seeing.

He just thought
he needed new glasses.

Then they found the tumor.

After he lost his
eyesight completely,

I started visiting more.

I used to read him the
sports section from the Post.

You two were close.

Honestly,

I just felt bad for him.

Seemed like the right thing

to do, you know?

What time did you leave
the hospital this morning?

Oh, a little after 9:30. Why?

Because we have reason to
believe Mr. Kelty succumbed

to something other
than natural causes.

You think he was murdered?

Oh, quite certain,
I'm afraid.

Did anyone see you
leave the hospital?

Someone from
the nurses' station?

I don't know.

Um, I can give you
my Metro card.

That'll tell you
what time I caught my train

after I left.
Hmm.

I place Trent Kelty's
death around 10:30.

If she left at 9:30...

Too early for the epi
to have been administered.

She couldn't be the killer.

Thank you.

Can you think of
anyone who would've

wished to harm
Mr. Kelty?

Family member, romantic
partner, business partner.

One of the reasons
I made a point

to visit Trent
was he was so alone.

No family, hardly any friends.

The only other person he used
to talk to was this doctor

that used to
come by at night.

His doctor visited him at night?

Not his oncologist.

Just a doctor
at the hospital.

They used to talk about his
cancer, how to manage the pain.

It seemed like he was
helping Trent cope

with what was coming.

His cancer was terminal?

He only had
a few months to live.

You didn't know?

You didn't happen to cut up

his food for him this morning,
did you?

Oh, the pancake?

No, it was like that
when I got there.

Why?

Whoever cut up
Trent Kelty's breakfast

came back after Jacqueline
left, killed him.

We may have a much bigger
problem on our hands

than this morning's homicide.

Because of
the pancakes?

You know I dislike
proposing a theory

in its formative stages
before I feel confident

of its conclusions.

Tell me.

We know that
Trent Kelty's killer

had some degree
of medical expertise.

We also know that
Trent was visited

almost exclusively by a man
claiming to be a doctor,

a man who I believe
cut an adult's food

into child-size bites.

Now, why would
a killer do that?

It reflects
a particular... mindset.

That of an individual
who tended to Trent's needs

not out of empathy but out
of a craving for his dependence.

And that mindset,
in turn, reflects

a particular kind of killer:

one who chooses victims
who are sick and weak,

one whose victims, he believes,
are doomed to die.

A man who would be drawn to
someone with a few months to live.

Someone whose preferred
hunting ground is a hospital. Why?

Because it provides
an endless supply of victims.

You're talking
about an Angel of Death.

If I'm right, Angels are
prolific, relentless.

Even if Trent Kelty
was our Angel's first kill,

it won't be his last.

Angel of Death here?
I don't know,

we've got some pretty
top-notch people on board.

I think they would
have sniffed it out.

It is just a theory,
for the moment,

but I've been right
about everything so far.

The autopsy showed that
Trent Kelty's epinephrine level

was well in excess of what
he received during the code.

He was murdered.

I'm very sorry to hear that.

If I'm going
to prove

that someone is killing patients here,
I need information,

access to all medical records
of in-hospital deaths

and all logs relating
to the supply

and usage of epinephrine.

Why are you
talking to me?

Sanchez handles all the records.

I'm not talking to him, because
I know that he'll say no.

I came to see you,
because you smiled

when I made fun of his height
this morning.

You don't like him.

I don't blame you.
You're also the head

of a very important department,
so your opinion carries

a lot of weight around here.

Okay,
I'll talk to him.

And by "talk,"
I mean I will threaten

to hold a press conference
to express my grave concerns

regarding this hospital's
apparent indifference

to the possibility
that a murderer

may be stalking
its halls.

You should have everything
you need in a couple of hours.

All this 'cause you made
a couple of short jokes.

Any luck?

Luck is an offensive,
abhorrent concept.

The idea that there is
a force in the universe

tilting events
in your favor

or against it is ridiculous.

Idiots rely on luck.

So that'd be a "no."

Fill me in.

Maybe I can help.

12 years of training,
remember?

We're in my wheelhouse.

Over the past two years
at Chandler Memorial,

73 seriously ill patients
have died of cardiac events.

Well, chances are
some of those are natural.

I mean, sick people do
have heart attacks and die.

Which means that one,
none, or some of them

may have fallen victim to the
same person who killed Kelty.

But without the Angel's victims,
I can't see his pattern,

and without his pattern, I can't
develop a list of suspects.

Okay, so forget
potential victims.

Let's focus
on the murder weapon.

Epinephrine is hard
to get ahold of.

Even if our killer
had a prescription

because of an allergy,
he would have

a very limited amount.
It's more likely...

That he nicked it
from the hospital pharmacy.

I already checked the records.
The pharmacy reported

epinephrine missing
on only two occasions,

neither of which corresponds to
any of the 73 cardiac events.

Okay, then, the crash carts.

It's stocked with epi,
and they're usually unlocked.

I think the logs

are over here.

Okay, during 2011,

epi went missing from
various crash carts

on January 6...

March 19...

March 27...

June 20...
October 28.

That's a fair amount
of a drug to go missing

without anyone raising an alarm, no?
You know,

hospitals are more
worried about oxy

and other opiates being
sold on the street.

Epi doesn't qualify.

You ready for 2012?

'Kay, February 17...

April 4...

May 25...

September 19.

Each of the dates you mentioned

corresponds with one
of the 73 cardiac deaths.

If you're right, he's
killed nine people.

We have our pattern;
now we'll find our suspects.

23 suspects

is a lot--
how long do you think

it's gonna take you and
Detective Bell to interview them?

Far less time than it would
have taken to interview

the roughly 2,000 male doctors
and nurses I started with.

I cross-referenced
time cards to identify

men who were working on
the days of the murders,

then eliminated those who
did not have ready access

to floors where
the deaths occurred.

You said nurses--
Kelty told his neighbor

that the man who visited
him was a doctor.

Kelty was blind from
his tumor, remember?

For all he knew, his visitor
could've been a circus clown.

You go get started--
I'm gonna meet Carrie

for a coffee,
see if she can point us

in the direction
of any hospital oddballs.

About yesterday, I got
a bit carried away.

Apologies.

It's all right.

Shouldn't you be in
the conference room

starting your interrogations?

Well, I thought I'd start here.

With me? You serious?

I got you access to those files.

Calculated risk.
Perfect way to deflect suspicion

in the event
I eventually got access.

Okay.

If you say so.
By now,

I'm sure you've realized
three of the nine patients

I believe fell victim
to the Angel were yours.

Coincidence?

Uh, actually... no.

Not at all.

According to you, the Angel
kills severely ill patients.

I operate on
the sickest people we got.

Still, your practice shares
a certain casual attitude

towards life and death.

Your mortality rates
go up each year.

That's because I take on patients
that no one else will treat.

Last year the hospital

forced you to stop performing
an experimental procedure

when you racked up a 75%
failure rate.

There are risks
associated with innovation.

Lawsuits among them.

Among your failures

were two fatalities,
each of which

cost the hospital
several million dollars

when the families sued.

It's my understanding

you've been on
unofficial probation

since then--
one more mistake,

you're gone
from Chandler Memorial,

complete with a recommendation
to the State Board

to suspend your license.

Now, maybe you started
killing patients

to punish the hospital
for losing faith in you.

Or perhaps you just wanted
to feel like God again.

Okay, do you really want
to know why I'm not

the killer
that you're looking for?

This Angel, if he exists,

kills people who are in pain.

It's a mission of mercy.

Me, I'm a surgeon.

My favorite kind of patient
is unconscious on a table

with a tube down his throat.

These people,
to be honest,

I'm not really interested

in whether they're
suffering or not.

It doesn't... really affect me,

and that's what makes me
exceptional at what I do.

So you're too indifferent
to your patients

to be the Angel of Death.

Novel alibi.

Well, there's
also the fact

that, uh, at the time
Mr. Kelty was killed...

yesterday...

I was on a train from
my home in White Plains.

But I got to get back
to work, and, uh...

it seems like you do, too.

Your friend who works
with the police,

he's sure there's
an Angel here?

Well, "sure" is a strong word,

but the pattern is
pretty hard to deny.

Oh, crap, I got to run.

- I have this pre-op consult.
- Okay.

You know, why don't
you come with me?

I'll keep trying to
think of weirdos.

- No, thanks, that's fine.
- Yeah, come on.

It'll only take
a few minutes.

Hi, Morgan.

This is my old friend,
Joan Watson.

Hi.
Hi.

Morgan's here 'cause
she tore her ACL.

Let me guess.

Soccer player,
right wing?

Center, actually.

Heart of the offense-- nice.

Okay, can you flex
your knee for me?

Are you a doctor, too?

No. Not anymore.

How come?

I'm just gonna take
a listen to your heart.

I'm afraid I'm
a little confused, Detective.

'Cause most of the people
you're asking me about

weren't even my patients.

Well, all nine of them
died of cardiac events

while you were on shift.
Oh, wow.

Nine sick people died in a hospital.
You assisted

in several of
their operations.

Yes, I'm a surgical resident--

I am involved
in lots of surgeries.

Look, I have been on call
for the last 29 hours,

haven't slept, barely eaten,

and still have an hour
drive home, so...

is there anything else
I can help you with?

Yeah, this guy here,
James Romano,

had pancreatic cancer.

One of the worst
forms there is.

I know, 'cause...

that's what killed
my grandmother.

Sometimes I wish...

I wish there
had been someone there

with the strength
to, uh... end

her pain.

You think someone
killed this man?

Th-The other patients, too?

He does. That's why he's trying
to gain your confidence,

suggest to you that
he's on your side,

that he actually empathizes
with someone

who would take a life
for the right reasons.

Only he's wasting his time;
you're free to go.

You want to tell me
why you did that?

Because it's highly unlikely
that he's our Angel.

That guy was so nervous, he was about
to come out of his skin.

You saw how
he was tapping

his keychain.
I also saw

how he stopped tapping
when he realized

the only reason
he was called in here

was because
of the patient deaths.

Suddenly he relaxed
and the tapping stopped.

Which means...

even if he is a creep,

he's probably
not our killer.

And given the number of suspects
we have left to question...

I'll bring in the
next interview.

Thanks for your help in there.

She's been pretty scared.

Sure.

Hey, sorry if this is weird, but
I noticed something in there.

Splinter hemorrhage
under her toenail.

Yeah, she's a
soccer player.

She probably just
jammed her toe--

happens all the time.
Or it could be endocarditis.

Joanie, come on.

She's a healthy 12-year-old girl

with a bum knee,
not an I.V. drug user

or someone with
a congenital heart defect.

I just checked her heart.

I heard no murmur and no rub.

If she has endocarditis,

she could crash
during her surgery.

Please, just to be safe,
run an echocardiogram.

And she says
she's done with medicine.

Fine.

I'll order an echo,
just to be safe.

You and Bell really moved
through those interviews.

That's what happens

when you fail to turn
up a single solid lead.

No one jumped out at you?

Uh-uh. What about
your friend?

Any oddballs
come to mind?

I was right
earlier, wasn't I?

You two were close,
but not anymore.

After my patient died,

I lost touch with a lot
of my hospital friends.

Being around them
was difficult.

Carrie just didn't get it.
Speak of the devil.

Bad news?

Uh, good, actually.

I met one of Carrie's
patients today.

I thought she might
have endocarditis.

I asked her
to run a test.

Turns out I was wrong.

You're disappointed.
Of course I'm not.

No, you didn't want
the patient to be sick,

but you wanted
to be right.

Are you sure
you weren't?

- Am I sure I wasn't what?
- Right.

This test she performed--

is it the gold standard
for endocarditis?

- Is it completely conclusive?
- No, but most cases...

Forget most cases.

What was your first instinct
when you saw the patient?

That she had endocarditis.
Then hold the course.

Myriad studies have shown

that first instincts
are typically the right ones.

What?

- What is it?
- That car.

I think it belongs to one
of my suspects, Dr. Cahill.

The bobcat sticker
on the bumper--

it matches
the one on his car key,

and his car key said
his car was a Nissan.

Okay, so that's his car.
What about it?

Well, Bell thought
that he was a solid suspect

for the Angel. I disagreed.

Thing is, as of
five hours ago,

Dr. Cahill wrapped up
a 30-hour shift.

Said he was going
to go home and sleep.

Legally, he's not allowed
to set foot

in the hospital
for another six hours.

When I got off call,

I couldn't get out
of the hospital fast enough.

So what's his car still
doing in the parking lot?

Dr. Cahill,
we meet again.

What-what the hell is this?

Hey, what-what do you think
you're doing?

Hey, get off of me!
You're making a msitake!

You're not gonna take
his word over mine.

Sherlock, I don't think
he's the Angel.

There's no epinephrine
in that syringe.

It's empty.

That's a PCA machine.

It dispenses morphine.

That's what
he was in here for.

He was trying to steal it.

So, we didn't
catch the Angel.

We caught an addict.

Stupid.

Registered his bloodshot eyes
and general twitchiness.

Chalked them up
to sleep deprivation.

I should probably have known
what he really was.

He was a doctor using
morphine on the job

and endangering
patients.

You caught him.
That's important.

W-Why are you taking
all those down?

'Cause they're
no longer suspects.

Your point regarding Dr. Cahill
would be quite heartening

if his drug habit
had anything to do

with the murderer currently
stalking the hospital.

A murderer who is most likely

targeting his next victim
as we speak.

A murderer I am no closer

to identifying
than I was this morning.

You met 23 people
in one day.

Maybe you missed
something.

I spent today soaking in
every word, every gesture,

every involuntary reaction
of these 23 former suspects.

Dr. Cahill was the only blip
on the radar.

Maybe not the
only blip.

All of the Angel's victims
were terminal...

except one-- her.

Samantha Cropsey. She was
the second to last victim.

She was quite sick, she'd been
in the ICU for two weeks.

Yes, but look here
in her chart: CABG.

That's Coronary Artery
Bypass Graft.

She'd had major surgery,
she was recovering slowly,

but she was recovering.
She wasn't going to die.

So, why did the Angel
make an exception for her?

Captain?

That druggie doctor we scooped
up at the hospital tonight?

He's talking. A lot.

Turns out he might be able

to help us find the Angel
after all.

By the time I get out
of surgery, I'm wiped out

and keyed up,
all at the same time.

I can't sleep
without the morphine.

No, it's not like the patients
that you're stealing it from

need it to deal with
their excruciating pain.

I'm telling you this
because I want to help.

So help.

Tell him what you told me.

A couple months ago,
I snuck into a patient's room.

Older guy,
end stage liver cancer.

I knew he'd have morphine.

Raymond Sutter, Angel victim

number seven.
Once I got

the morphine out of the PCA,

I ducked into the bathroom to...

I believe the words
you're looking for

are "shoot" and "up."

And, uh, when I got myself
together to leave,

I realized someone was
coming into the room.

Did you see
his face?

I hid out in the bathroom
the whole time.

They talked
for, like, an hour.

Uh, I didn't recognize
the guy's voice,

but he was definitely a doctor,
talked a lot about medicine.

Were they discussing
Sutter's condition?

Yeah, yeah. The doctor explained

how the cancer
was shutting down his liver,

how the, uh... the toxins would
slowly build up in his body.

Really, you know,
laid it all out for the guy.

I could tell it wasn't
the first time talking about it.

The doctor knew that
the patient didn't have much

in the way of family.

And the next day...
died of a heart attack.

I didn't think
anything of it.

Except that you'd need to find
a new source for your morphine.

And when you and the detective
asked about an Angel of Death,

it got me wondering.

Didn't know how to tell you
what I'd heard

without explaining why I was
in that patient's bathroom.

Nothing like getting caught
to help one grow a conscience.

We're back on
track, Watson.

Dr. Cahill described a doctor
with an approach identical

to the one described
by the neighbor

who'd been visiting
Trent Kelty.

He talks to his victims, gets to
know them before he kills them.

Finally, our theoretical
Angel is proved real.

Where are you going?

To take another look at
the hospital records.

Dr. Cahill's insights may
cast them in a new light.

You have copies
of the records at home.

I prefer to work
on the originals.

There's more detail,
more texture.

I was right about
the Angel, Watson.

As a wise man once said,

"First instinct,
usually the right one."

Joanie, hey.

I think you should run a T.E.E.
on Morgan before her surgery.

Her echo was clean,
as I expected.

She doesn't have
endocarditis.

25% of cases don't show up
on the standard echo.

In addition to her splinter
hemorrhage, she's pale.

I'm not subjecting
a 12-year-old

to a scary and invasive test
because you have a hunch.

- Okay, I know I'm overstepping...
- Yes, you are.

- Morgan is my patient, not yours.
- Okay, I understand.

I just... My gut is telling me

that if you operate
on her, she could die.

She'll be fine, Joan.

I'm operating
on her, not you.

Expected you an hour ago.

I went to the hospital to talk
to Carrie about her patient.

Victory?

I did what I could.

Well, on the bright side,

I've made a rather
important discovery.

Dariya Ruseckas' consent form.

- Uh, she's the fifth victim.
- Look closely.

It's a standard consent form
for an angiogram with contrast.

This is the
appropriate procedure.

Note the handwriting,

or rather, the handwritings.

Oh, they're two different kinds.

Dariya printed her name
and signed it,

but someone else filled out
the body of the form.

Exactly.

The nurse who initialed
the form here.

A.J. It stands
for Anichka Jones.

Jones, I'm assuming,
is a married name,

because "Anichka" is
as Ukrainian as it gets.

Explains why she filled out
the form for Ms. Ruseckas.

Because Miss Ruseckas,
born in Ukraine,

obviously did not speak enough
English to fill it out herself.

Okay.

The killer liked to converse
with his victims,

repeatedly and at great length.

Getting to know them was clearly
part of the process.

And he could have only gotten to
know her if he spoke Ukrainian.

We just need to check
the personnel records

for a doctor who knows it.

I already did.
There are none.

Then why are you so happy?

Because, Ms. Watson,
as you very well know,

not all doctors stay doctors.

Your lack of accent
is quite impressive, Mr. Gura.

Thank you.

I learned English as a boy.

Hmm. If I met you on the street,

I would never guess
you were a native Ukrainian.

But at work, well, the tools
of your trade gave you away.

Your janitor's cart--
you decorated the handle

with, uh, blue and yellow rags.

Since all of your cleaning rags
were white,

I knew that the fabric
was deliberately chosen,

and as I later realized,

representative of the colors
of the Ukrainian flag.

Then I pulled your personnel
file, and lo and behold,

under education,
you listed Olesky University.

Congratulations. Arguably,

best medical school
in all of Ukraine.

Not arguably.

Hmm.

Yes, I was a doctor in Ukraine.

Now I'm a janitor.

Is that why I'm here?

A problem
with how I clean the floors?

Actually, we thought
maybe you could help us.

Do you recognize any
of these people?

They were all patients
at the hospital.

"Were" being the operative word.

They're all dead now.

We believe they were all...

murdered.

Yes, I remember them.

Many of these patients
were very sick.

Even dying.

That makes it okay to kill them?

When a patient is in pain,
dying is not a tragedy.

It is a release.

You make it sound so noble.

The murder of defenseless,
sick people.

I'm sorry.
I still don't understand

why you want to speak with me.

We got a warrant, Mr. Gura.

We searched your
apartment this morning

while you were
at the hospital,

and we found... this.

It's a log

filled with medical notes,
written by you.

Exclusively
about these nine patients.

And we know that you're the man
who killed them.

I freed them.

I freed them
from the pain-wracked prison

their bodies had become.

I saw them,

I studied them.

Confirmed for myself there was
no chance at recovering,

that all they had to live for

was the horror of dying.

And I did what
needed to be done.

I showed them mercy.

What about Samantha Cropsey?

- What about her?
- She was getting better.

How can you call
what you did to her mercy?

Better?

People do not get better from
metastasized cardiac cancer.

She didn't have cancer.

She was recovering
from bypass surgery.

Her-her blood pressure
was improving,

her oxygen saturation...

No. You're wrong.

- They'd found a mass in her heart.
- What happened?

Did you get bored of waiting
for somebody sick enough?

The pain was so bad,
she could hardly form sentences.

She was begging me to make it stop.
She had her entire life

ahead of her!
No!

She was dying.

You're no better
than the police

in Soviet Ukraine,

making up
lies to suit your truths.

I am done talking.

You've said
quite enough.

Holmes.

Great work.

We'll take it
from here.

What, what is it?

He's telling the truth o-or
at least he thinks he is.

About being the Angel?

About Samantha
Cropsey's condition.

He's convinced
she was suffering

from terminal
cardiac cancer.

Well, he's also convinced

that he helped those people
that he killed.

He's a lunatic.

What'd you expect?

I don't know,
just not this.

I was thinking
sushi tonight.

Salmonella,
Vibrio parahaemolyticus,

mercury poisoning,
Anisakis simplex:

all illnesses contractible
from eating raw fish.

Anisakis, of particular note,

is a worm that can burrow
into the wall of the intestine,

often requiring
surgery

to remove it,
but, yeah, sushi's good.

Why are you still

looking through those files?
You caught the Angel.

I caught someone
who is

smart, medically knowledgeable,

and fiercely attentive
to detail.

His notes
on Samantha Cropsey's condition

say that cardiac cancer

was discovered
during her bypass surgery.

Why did he get it so wrong,

and why is he so convinced
he was right?

You expecting
someone?

Am I ever?

Mr. Holmes, right?

We met the other day.

Joanie's friend.

I got your information
from Bruce in the morgue.

He seemed to think I might
be able to find her here.

Watson, it's for you!

Carrie.

I wanted you to know
you were right.

Morgan had
endocarditis.

The lab found it
when they ran a T.E.E.,

which, coincidentally,
is the test

you wanted me
to run on her.

The funny thing is,
I didn't order it.

Some anonymous person

put the request in her chart
and the lab followed through.

Remember, on our
vascular rotation,

how the chief resident
always used to say,

"Better lucky
than good"?

Sounds to me like
you were lucky.

Yeah, I guess I was.

I know what it's like
not to be lucky.

It turned my life
upside-down.

You were always
a good friend, Joanie,

but you were
a better doctor.

Aren't you full
of surprises?

Of course you were listening.

Altering the girl's
chart, saving her life.

Apparently your instincts
were spot on.

Well done.

Thank you.

Actually it's me who
should be thanking you.

You've given me an idea
as to why Danilo Gura

would have killed
Samantha Cropsey.

Get your coat.

I need to speak
with Danilo right away.

I think he may have been
holding out on us.

Dr. Baldwin,

you are a brilliant man,
are you not?

You didn't tell me
he was going to be here.

I asked you
a question.

Are you a, a
brilliant man?

You're a step ahead of everybody
for long enough,

people start calling you
brilliant.

I get a feeling that you know
something about that.

Ah, indeed I do.

One of the dangers of
brilliance, however,

is that you sometimes
fail to recognize

the possibility
that others are--

at least in some respect--
just as brilliant.

Last night, for example,
it occurred to me,

I may not have been
the first person

to discover the Angel of
Death at Chandler Memorial.

I'm sorry, you're saying
that someone else knew

that he was there
but kept it to themself?

A brilliant someone,

in this case a brilliant someone
with extensive medical knowledge

and real reason
to pay close attention

to the sudden death
of two of his surgical patients.

Okay, if you're referring to me,

I can assure you I had no idea
what Danilo Gura was up to.

We checked the
morgue security logs.

Apparently you went there
to examine the two bodies

of the first two
patients you lost

to the Angel.

They were my patients.

I wanted to know what happened.

I didn't find out
anything unusual.

I believe that you did realize
they had been murdered.

Perhaps you noticed
a bit of ischemia,

as brilliant men
are wont to do,

but around the same time

you committed
yet another surgical error.

You left a clamp
in Samantha Cropsey's chest

during a routine bypass surgery.

Okay, I've had
just about enough of this.

Whoa.
It was inevitable

Samantha would develop
complications.

The mistake could have been
easily rectified,

the clamp removed,
but not without earning you

your third strike and ending
your formerly great career...

unless the Angel
could make it all go away.

You realized that
he targeted patients

who were not only terminal
but also in tremendous pain,

so you set about making Samantha
an attractive target.

First you found
the biopsy of a patient

dying of cardiac cancer.

You put Samantha's name
on the biopsy results,

you noted that the tumor
was found during her surgery,

and then you placed them
into her chart.

Secondly you made sure
that she was in pain

so the Angel would feel
compelled to end her suffering.

That was
simple enough.

Just reduce
her pain meds.

Now, this had the added benefit
of making her too delirious

to effectively communicate
with a killer who liked

to chat up his victims.

The Angel took the bait.

Samantha succumbed
to a cardiac event.

Now, all you had
to do was remove

those cancer results
from her chart

and your mistake was erased
until today.

We received
permission to exhume

Ms. Cropsey's body.

The M.E. found this lodged
in her ribcage.

It's a surgical clamp.

Look familiar?

Let's say that I believe you.

Let's say
that you actually found that

in Samantha's remains.

All you've proven is
that I made a mistake--

a mistake that'll probably end
my career

and keep me from helping
thousands of people--

but I see no evidence at all
that I faked records

or that I killed
people.

Excellent points,

which is why I visited
Danilo Gura late last night.

His patient logs were
so detailed, so comprehensive,

first I suspected
he must have copied the data

directly from the charts.

But why would he risk doing that
in a hospital

where someone could walk in
at any moment?

Then it hit me:

he'd taken pictures.

Like this one for example.

At first

he refused to acknowledge
the photos' existence,

but after I explained how
you had manipulated him

into violating
his code,

he told us we could find them
on a flash drive

he had hidden
in a vent near his apartment.

God forbid either of you
should ever need surgery

to save your life.

I am the guy you want
standing over you in the O.R.

I imagine it was
that kind of thinking

that helped you justify
Samantha's murder.

Her life versus the thousands
you believed you'd save.

I was talking to the D.A.

this morning.

He figures
murder two is a lock.

You're looking
at 20 to life.

Chandler Memorial Hospital

was rocked by scandal
for the second time in two days

when Dr. Mason Baldwin was
arrested for his role

in the death of one

of confessed Angel of Death
Danilo Gura's victims.

Recent...

My favorite bit--
this moment.

The slumped shoulders,
the pallor,

like a turtle trying to
retreat back into its shell.

I'm happy for you.

I'm also exhausted,
I'm turning in.

I must say, Watson,

I enjoyed catching a glimpse
of you in your former element.

Seems to me
your friend was right.

You were quite a doctor.

I had my moments.

♪ You could never be
a face in the crowd... ♪

Maybe you'll give it another go
one of these days.

♪ So you're travelin' on ♪

♪ Travelin' on out ♪

♪ Well, you know

♪ I'll never say it out loud ♪

♪ I'll be travelin' on,
travelin' with you ♪

♪ Hey, I'm too weak ♪

♪ It's too much to fight off ♪

♪ The past so strong

♪ But now

♪ I don't think
too much of the time ♪

♪ I'll just try to keep up... ♪

== sync, corrected by elderman ==