Original subtitles

Too loud?

Sorry.

I went downstairs to get some cereal.

Didn't want to miss anything.

This city has

excellent scanner apps,

but there's nothing like the tactility

of the original devices-- all those dials and buttons.

You like pushing buttons; I'm stunned.

You've been glued to these for the last few days.

It's a slow week.

At least in regards to murder and mayhem.

Captain Gregson hasn't called once.

Maybe some lunatic will

put his mother-in-law in the wood chipper,

give you something to do today.

Uh, I need to talk to you about something.

That's never good.

Your father e-mailed me last night

before I went to bed.

He's coming into town for business.

Wants to have dinner.

What's so funny?

Him.

Dinner. Us.

You.

Remind me, Watson: how many times

have you actually met the man?

Never.

That's because he secured your services

as my sober companion electronically.

Yeah, but... And all of your

subsequent correspondence has been

via e-mail or through one of his legion of personal assistants.

- So? - So, take it from someone

who has spent incrementally more time with him than you:

he has zero intention of meeting us for dinner this evening.

What are you talking about?

Shh!

...at Beach 17 Street.

10-4, multiple units responding.

Detective, show me 84 at the scene, over.

- What is it? - Get dressed. We're leaving.

Do you want to tell me what you just heard?

"10-66." Code for "unusual incident."

It can mean one of only three things.

Location of the incident-- Far Rockaway Beach--

indicates it's neither a train collision

nor a building collapse, which leaves only one possibility.

Plane crash.

I didn't realize you also investigated accidents?

We need to find Captain Gregson.

He 84'd on the scanner.

I heard his voice.

"84" is confirmation he had arrived on the scene.

What are you doing here?

I heard what happened on the scanner;

I thought I might be able to be of assistance.

This isn't a crime scene, it's a crash site.

I'm a jack-of- many-trades.

When it comes to aviation and air accidents,

I'm something of an expert.

Good to know, but we've already got all the experts we need.

This is their scene, not mine.

Department's just here to lend a hand.

Captain Gregson?

Yeah?

Some of our looky-loos are getting

a little too close for comfort.

Sergeant, you hear that?

Excuse me, Miss, uh...

Molinari.

What exactly are we looking at?

Engine failure? Bird strike?

Fatigued wing spar?

Ms. Molinari, uh,

this is, uh, Sherlock Holmes.

He's a consultant with the NYPD.

Miss Watson.

You have a consultant for plane crashes?

No, he's...

A specialist in the field of deductive reasoning.

And unraveling the complex chain of events

that can turn a triumph of human innovation

into a smoldering pile

of wreckage in seconds--

well, I can't think of

a more compelling application than that.

Well, thank you for the offer, Mr. Holmes,

but I think we have things covered.

Go home, okay?

If you really need something to do, I'll send you

some cold case files when I get...

back to the precinct.

Holmes!

How many of the passengers were attorneys?

All of them.

How did you...?

The toiletry kit.

It's emblazoned with the logo "VeriScript."

That's a court reporting company

hired to transcribe depositions.

Obviously given to the lawyers

as some sort of promotional gift,

help drum up business.

This man's leg was nearly

amputated by a piece of fuselage,

yet there's virtually no evidence of blood loss

on his pants.

Laceration like that

while his heart was still pumping,

that'd make quite a mess, no?

To put it mildly.

Blunt force trauma

on the back of his head.

It's a nasty one at that.

Someone caved his skull in before the plane hit the ground.

This man didn't die in a plane crash...

he was murdered.

♪ Elementary 1x06 ♪ Flight Risk Original Air Date on November 8, 2012

== sync, corrected by elderman ==

Note the distinctive shape of the wound, the depth,

the severity of damage to the bone, gray matter.

The murder weapon wasn't just heavy,

it had two prongs at the tip.

A wrench?

Large one.

Blow would've killed him instantly.

Has the, uh, has the voice recorder

been recovered from the cockpit?

Not yet.

Any eyewitness accounts of the crash?

One, a jogger.

She said that the plane was gaining altitude

when the nose suddenly went straight up.

It climbed like that for a while, then shuddered,

tipped to the right and went into a tailspin.

I was thinking wake turbulence or elevator control failure.

Hmm.

Might want to add

"wrench-wielding madman" to that list.

The passengers were all attorneys

with the same white shoe firm.

Two men, one woman.

The odds of one of them attacking the other

in the back of this small plane with a wrench...

You can see how that might be distracting to a pilot, no?

Hmm?

Unless the pilot was the killer.

You're saying that the pilot got up from his controls

to attack a passenger?

Drivers get road rage.

Can a pilot get air rage?

Would you come with me?

Let's talk logistics.

Did you find something?

Sand.

Well, yeah...

th-these granules aren't frosted.

Natural sand is, um, it's smoother, weathered.

The city must have trucked in new sand

to offset the erosion on the beach.

Are you okay?

You seem a little off, even for you.

Four people are dead, Watson.

I'm just trying to do my part.

I get it, but whoever killed that attorney

must have died in that crash, too, right?

Obviously.

Well, then if there's no killer on the loose,

I just, I don't understand why you're sticking around.

Because the killer hasn't been identified yet.

We have three suspects.

Dead, alive, doesn't matter.

Two of them are innocent of the crime.

Don't you think we owe it to their loved ones to prove that?

Absolutely, but all the police have to do

is find the murder weapon.

Then they can compare fingerprints.

What if they don't find it? What then?

Hmm?

Also, the killer committed a murder

on a very small plane with a very large wrench.

Now, if the crime was spur-of-the-moment,

what was the wrench doing there, hmm?

If it was premeditated, what was the killer thinking?

He-- or she-- waited

until they were in an extremely confined space

with their would-be victim

and two witnesses. Hmm?

That seems like a strange time and place

to commit a violent homicide,

wouldn't you agree?

It's just...

there's a story here, Watson.

And we can help tell it.

Or do we just need to stay busy enough

to miss dinner with your father?

So, CSU's en route to process the scene.

NTSB will work their crash, and we'll work our murder.

If I may make a suggestion, Captain.

We start by speaking with the people

who were the last to have seen the victims alive.

Good idea.

Joe and I were

friends for over 20 years.

This would be Joe Newell, the pilot?

Yeah.

Were you very familiar with the passengers?

Walter Devlin flew with us quite a bit.

But that was mostly for cases

that he or his law firm were taking on.

What about his associates?

Uh, Hank Gerrard and Ellie Wilson?

Yeah, they accompanied him once or twice,

but I never actually met them.

You weren't at the airstrip when the plane took off this morning?

I own the company, I don't fly the planes.

So I'm not always there when they take off.

Your friend, Joe-- was he an irascible type?

Short-tempered? No.

He's ex-military.

Joe didn't have a temper.

We have reason to believe

that there was an incident shortly after takeoff.

Uh, Hank Gerrard may have been attacked.

I don't understand. And you think that's

what might have brought down the plane?

We're waiting for the NTSB

to make their official report.

Look, I don't know how much help it'd be,

but we put a security camera in the parking area last year

after a couple cars were broken into.

You might be able to see the passengers arriving.

We'll take it, definitely.

But as far as Joe goes,

all I can tell you is he was as good a man as he was a pilot,

and he never had one problem with any passenger.

So, if Mr. Gerrard was attacked,

Joe wasn't the guy who did it.

Learn anything?

Only that the pilot's boss thought very highly of him.

Doesn't mean he didn't go mental on a passenger, mind you.

I just got an e-mail from your dad's personal secretary.

Ah, told you he'd back out.

Actually, he was wondering

if we could do dinner at Lure at 6:00.

Look, I know you have your issues,

but I think it's important that we go.

Of course you do.

He's signing your checks.

Remind me, how are you

paying for the brownstone again?

He obviously cares about you.

If he didn't, he would not have put you through rehab

and he certainly would not have hired me to work with you.

I'm about to disabuse you of several notions,

so please listen very carefully.

One: my father does not care about me.

He does what he does out of a sense of familial obligations.

Big difference.

Two: he does not care about you

or what you think.

Meeting you would be a formality.

And three: as I've already told you,

your concern is unwarranted, 'cause he has absolutely

no intention of showing up tonight.

How could you possibly know that?

Because he is a serial absentee.

A pathological maker and breaker of promises.

Been that way since I was a boy.

Fool me once, shame on you.

Fool me ad nauseam...

Holmes.

Got something for you and the captain.

Captain, just got off the phone with

one of the junior partners at Walter Devlin's firm.

He said that Devlin, Hank Gerrard and Ellie Wilson

were headed to a retreat in Martha's Vineyard to work on

a class action case against a company called Carmanto Foods.

There were allegations that the company's

sugar substitute causes cancer.

Plaintiffs were seeking damages

in the neighborhood of a hundred mil.

Seems there was a lot of infighting

among our three dead lawyers about how to proceed.

Anyone particularly angry with the murder victim, Hank Gerrard?

As a matter of fact, yeah.

He was butting heads with his boss,

Walter Devlin.

Devlin's inclination was to settle,

Gerrard's was to keep fighting.

They'd had a few loud arguments at the office.

Guy I spoke to thought Gerrard was gonna get fired

if he didn't back down.

Sounds like we've got our primary suspect.

Still doesn't explain why the head of a successful law firm

would've brought a wrench aboard a small aircraft.

It's possible

we're about to find out.

Ms. Molinari of the NTSB.

They just found the plane's black box.

Key Star two eight three hotel foxtrot,

state your position.

Air traffic control.

Key Star two eight three hotel foxtrot...

That's the pilot, Joe Newell.

...endurance 90 minutes.

Thank you, Key Star.

You're clear to climb to 3,400.

I made you, Hank.

Took you in and built you up from nothing.

And now you pull a stunt like this?

You think I'm gonna let it slide? Guess again.

Calm down, Walter.

Walter Devlin, Ellie Wilson.

Let the pilot do his job. Come back here, we'll do ours.

Key Star to ATC, what's my best vector?

You cannot protect Hank, Ellie; not from me.

What the hell, what the hell's going on back there?!

Damn! Get it down. Get it down! What is it?!

Key Star to ATC, we have an emergency. Oh, God.

Are you able to maintain altitude?

That's a negative.

Brace! Brace!

I can't believe it, but it sounds like you were right.

No, I was mistaken. There wasn't any fight.

But you can hear...

An entirely one-sided argument.

Mr. Gerrard never says a word.

But the junior partner that you spoke with

said that he and Devlin were prone to loud disagreements.

Yet this morning, Hank Gerrard doesn't even get

a syllable in edgeways. Also I'm assuming

that if your people had found

a murder weapon by now, you would have told us.

It seems strange, given that

every other piece of debris

seems to have been accounted for.

Could've ended up in the water.

Well, nothing else seemed to.

Okay, how do you explain the pilot's initial exchange

with air traffic control?

He says, and I quote, "Three souls aboard."

Three. Not four.

He could have meant three passengers.

Pilots often don't include themselves in the count.

I believe this one did. What are you saying?

That he didn't know Hank Gerrard was in the cabin?

I'm saying Hank Gerrard wasn't in the cabin.

But that's impossible. His body was in the wreckage.

Allow me, if you will,

another interpretation of the evidence.

Hank Gerrard wasn't killed on the plane,

he was killed elsewhere, and earlier in the morning.

It would explain why the wrench hasn't turned up,

'cause it wasn't on the plane.

Because the crime scene, crash site,

two entirely different places, hmm?

The killer bludgeoned

Mr. Gerrard, then, for reasons

yet to be determined, conceals his body in the cargo hold.

Mr. Devlin, he just assumes

that Gerrard has missed the flight,

so he calls his absentee colleague

to scold him.

That's would explain why

you don't hear Gerrard's voice on the recording,

'cause Devlin's tirade was a voice message.

Now Ms. Wilson, she tries to calm Devlin.

She leads him towards the back

of the plane.

Now, neither of them knows there's a 200-pound corpse

just inches below their feet.

The sudden weight imbalance threw the plane into a dive.

Did you recover Mr. Gerrard's cell phone?

Yes, but it's damaged.

May I?

If I'm right...

he'll have a new voicemail.

I made you, Hank.

Took you in and built you up from nothing.

Now you pull a stunt like this?

You think I'm gonna let it slide? Guess again.

Mr. Devlin and Ms. Wilson did not kill Hank Gerrard;

they didn't even know where he was.

Joe Newell, an experienced pilot,

would've known better than to stash the extra weight

of his body in the cargo hold and risk exactly

the kind of accident that occurred.

They may be dead,

but the person who killed Hank Gerrard is not.

We have a living, breathing murderer to find after all.

What was the killer thinking? Why stuff Gerrard's body

in the hold of the plane, like so much luggage?

Surely he knew it would be discovered

when the plane reached Martha's Vineyard.

Did he want it found? If yes, why?

Was it intended as some sort of message?

If so, to whom?

Can I ask you a question?

Can I stop you?

Are you afraid of flying?

It's just you pursuing this case

didn't make sense to me at first.

As far as you knew, it was just an accident.

But then at the crash site this morning,

you weren't yourself.

"Myself"?

You got distracted by sand on a beach.

And look at that board.

Normally, you would have put up every picture

you had from the crash site.

But instead, there's just images of what

the plane used to look like.

I've already examined those pictures,

and they yielded nothing.

Now since you're a disgraced ex-surgeon

and not a disgraced ex-psychologist,

what say you stop analyzing me, okay?

How did you get from London to New York?

Okay, well, maybe your father will tell me at dinner tonight.

Hey.

Just got the phone with the owner

of Key Star Charters, Charles Cooper.

They got the footage from their security camera.

He said there's something on it we should see.

So, this is about 45 minutes before the plane took off.

That's Mr. Gerrard.

I don't know who this other guy is, but

obviously, he and Mr. Gerrard had words.

It's the model glue, isn't it?

It's murder on my senses.

Not to mention I'm under strict orders not to get high.

This office is like one big huffing bag.

Ten minutes later, he leaves alone.

So now we know Mr. Gerrard arrived here alive and intact.

Gotta figure he was killed here, too.

You got this from any other angles?

Eh, sorry. Only other camera got broke a few weeks ago.

Hasn't been fixed yet.

Mr. Cooper, I'm gonna need you and Mister...

Barts. ...Barts to clear out of here for a while.

Meantime, we'll get this video to our experts,

see if we can't identify our mystery man.

Any luck cleaning up that picture?

About as much luck as I had examining the hangar.

No sign of any crime being perpetrated there.

No clarity with regards

to our fat friend's facial features here.

On the bright side, I think I might know where he works.

"Arm To?"

Carmanto Foods-- isn't that the company

that Gerrard and his colleagues were suing, right?

Almost anyone who works there would've had motive.

Unfortunately, rotund white male executives

at the company number in the dozens.

Our suspect does have one distinguishing feature, however:

the '90s-era "pager" attached to his belt.

I'm gonna go get started getting ready to meet your dad.

Last chance to join us for dinner?

Last chance to accept there is no dinner.

Dad... never... shows!

Say it with me, Watson.

Maybe it'll sink in. Sherlock...

He's Lucy with the football.

You're Charlie Brown.

People don't make plans just to break them.

People don't. My father does.

For the record, that's not a pager.

It's an insulin pump. Your mystery man is a diabetic.

Ed Hairston?

Detective Bell, NYPD.

This is my colleague Mr. Holmes.

We'd like to ask you some questions

about your relationship with Hank Gerrard.

I'm sorry... I don't know who that is.

Odd. His firm is suing your company for $100 million.

Something about a sugar substitute that causes cancer.

We have surveillance video of you

talking to Mr. Gerrard in the Key Star Charters

parking lot shortly before someone caved his skull in,

stuck him in the hold of a small plane.

It's how we found you, actually.

Saw the Carmanto logo on your shirt,

insulin pump on your belt, made a few calls.

It's a bit ironic, isn't it?

Diabetic working for a company that makes bad sugar?

I don't understand.

I heard on the news Hank was killed in a crash.

This would be the same Hank you don't know?

I did know him, sort of.

I was helping him.

By showing his scalp what the inside of his skull looked like?

It happened with his case.

I'd been giving him information

to use against Carmanto.

You're a whistleblower?

Hank was angry with me because I refused to testify.

Carmanto had offered a settlement.

I thought it was more than fair.

Hank's boss was inclined

to accept it, and Hank wanted more.

He...

He asked me yesterday to reconsider taking the stand.

I told him I couldn't.

We argued. I left.

I never laid a hand on him.

The company knew that that sugar substitute was deadly.

And Carmanto buried that evidence,

convinced everybody it was fine.

It looked like sugar, it felt like sugar...

but it wasn't.

Thank you for your time, Mr. Hairston; we'll be in touch.

Thought you said that guy was our strongest suspect.

Now that I've met him,

I know that he's our weakest suspect, literally.

Did you see how hard it was for him

to open that pill bottle? So?

Type-2 diabetes can significantly affect

grip strength, particularly in men.

His is so bad

- he's bought adaptive office-

oversized ergonomic pens, a book holder.

There's no way could he have grasped and swung

the heavy wrench used to kill Hank Gerrard.

So, in other words, we got nothing.

Nope. We've got sand.

Thank you.

Mr. Holmes?

Ms. Watson, I presume.

You're early.

Not as early as you. It's nice to finally meet you.

Oh! Oh...

Uh, Zadie Smith is one of my favorite authors.

Let me guess: my son is parking the car.

Um...

No, it's okay, Ms. Watson.

No need for excuses. The truth is

I'd have been much more surprised if he had come.

I've laid as many bricks in the wall between us as he has.

So, how's the old boy doing?

Good, actually.

I think he's got a handle on his post-rehab life.

I mean, he doesn't keep the healthiest hours,

but you know, work keeps him busy, focused.

Getting him to go to support group meetings

can be tricky, though.

Stubborn, criminally so.

Always was.

I remember when he was a boy,

he'd climb the fence

around our property and walk from post to post.

I warned him it was dangerous, but he wouldn't listen.

Then he falls and lands on his wrist.

Ugly business, bone jutting through skin.

But despite the pain,

he set the bone and wrapped the wound himself.

Took to wearing long-sleeve shirts for the next few days.

All to keep his father from telling him that he was right.

You're kidding me.

Ended up with a scar right here.

Covered it with one of his barmy tattoos, if memory serves.

I am really glad we're doing this.

Oh? I've had many different clients,

but Sherlock is definitely... unique.

There's just so much more I want know about him.

I'm happy to answer any questions you may have.

Would you mind terribly if I asked one of you first?

How's the sex?

I beg your pardon?

The sex. The shagging.

Is he enjoying it?

I don't understand.

I was told that was part of the "service" you provided.

Satisfying your client's every need.

Why else would anyone pay your exorbitant fees?

You're not Mr. Holmes, are you?

I don't believe this.

I'm sorry, it's just...

if you'd seen your face...

Who are you?

Actor.

Well, a struggling one at that.

Your Mr. Sherlock

hired me from my manager.

Said it wouldn't be a problem if I took

his father's place tonight because...

...Dad never shows. Dad never shows.

I was discussing an artificial sweetener

with a suspect earlier on.

Yeah, looks and feels like regular sugar,

but it's not.

There are minute differences,

carcinogenic ones in that case,

but it got me thinking about some unusual sand

I noticed at the crash site.

It was new, hadn't been weathered by the elements yet.

First I thought, "Well, the city must have trucked it in

to offset erosion on the beach,"

but according to the Parks Department,

they haven't done that at Far Rockaway

in over a year, so how did the sand

make it there?

In the fuel tank.

Sand dumped into the fuel tank

would initially settle on the bottom.

Plane would take off, no difficulty.

But... during the course of the flight,

more and more granules will get sucked into the filter,

clogging it and starving the engine

of fuel mid-flight, regardless of the extra weight

of Hank Gerrard's body.

You think the flight was bound to crash.

Actually, Ms. Molinari,

as of this moment, I know it was bound to crash.

Same unfrosted grains

I saw at the crash site, looks and feels

like beach sand, but it's not.

These grains are comprised mostly of silica,

commercial sand.

Somebody sabotaged the flight.

Probably the same person who killed Hank Gerrard.

What if Hank walked in on the saboteur?

Easier to bash his skull in

then explain why you're funneling sand

into a fuel tank, no?

Then it's just a case

of concealing the body.

The cargo hold makes sense

in that the flight was doomed to crash anyway.

As long as it crashed over water.

Which it would do on its way to Martha's Vineyard.

Traces of sand would be washed away.

Instead, it crashed prematurely due to the weight imbalance.

So, we know why Hank Gerrard's body

was stuffed into the cargo hold.

The questions are: who put it there,

and why did they want to bring down that plane?

You're home early.

Did you enjoy your time with dear old Dad?

Oh, come on, Watson,

show a little appreciation for a prank well played.

To pull that off, I had to be

absolutely certain my father wouldn't show.

I did mention that he wouldn't show, didn't I?

Just out of curiosity,

why did the old tosspot drop out this time?

Surely he's e-mailed you some sort of apology by now.

He was called away

On important business, yeah.

An old one, but a good one.

Anyway, It's good that you're back.

I realized earlier this evening that the flight that crashed

was sabotaged.

The good news is I've been going over Key Star Charter's

flight logs, and I believe I've found

a mathematical quirk that has pointed me in the direction

of a suspect.

I would like to go and confront him.

So...

I waited for you.

Hm? You should be grateful.

If you want to go pound on some criminal's door,

I suggest you call the police.

I'm going to bed.

You should've trusted me

when I told you he wouldn't show.

Trusted you?

I've been glued to your side for weeks now,

and you have refused to share

even the tiniest bit of your personal history.

You know what, Sherlock, I don't trust you.

Because thanks to you,

we're still basically just strangers.

Ah, Mr. Holmes, right?

Mr. Barts, good to see you again.

You didn't mention when we met

that you're one of Key Star's pilots.

Well, yeah, I am.

Is that a problem?

Well, not for me, no.

But for your recently deceased colleague,

Joe Newell, maybe.

I don't understand.

Joe Newell's widow told me

that you and he had a rather...

ugly disagreement on the telephone

last week.

He wouldn't tell her what it was about.

He just said that the problem was being taken care of.

That was nothing.

Yeah, I poached one of his regulars.

This rich guy who flies to D.C. every week.

Good tipper.

Joe was angry, but we worked it out.

We were thinking the argument may have been

over something else.

You see,

when I realized that Joe's plane

had been sabotaged,

it occurred to me that the saboteur

may have been satisfying a grudge,

not against one of the flight's passengers,

but against the airline itself.

Now I dug into some of the logs that the NTSB gathered

from Key Star, and I noticed

something strange.

Every time you, Owen Barts,

piloted a plane back from Miami,

you recorded an onboard weight of exactly 66 pounds

over the weight of the passengers and their baggage.

It's just a mistake with my math.

The same mathematical mistake, made again and again,

only when you return from Miami, Florida.

No.

You were accounting for extra cargo.

You had to, because accurate weight calculations

are critical when determining the amount of fuel

required for a flight.

But why 66 pounds exactly?

A strange number.

Until you factor in metric conversion.

66 pounds is the equivalent of exactly 30 kilos.

Nice even number

for cocaine smuggling, no?

What happened?

Did Joe find out and want a cut?

That's not likely,

given his reputation, his military background.

It's more likely that he threatened to go

to the authorities if you didn't stop.

Either way,

you engineered a plane crash to eliminate the threat.

Problem was, Hank Gerrard caught you in the act.

You improvised.

You killed him.

Concealed his body in the cargo hold of a plane

that you knew was gonna crash.

It's quite a... quite a story.

There's just one problem.

I was nowhere near the hangar this morning.

I was with my boss, Charles.

His car stalled,

so I had to stop by his place to give him a jump.

Don't believe me, go ask him.

He'll tell you.

I couldn't have killed Mr. Gerrard

or sabotaged that plane.

Holy...

You were right.

Yesterday, when you suggested

I had a certain preoccupation with plane crashes.

It is why I was drawn to this case.

I'm not phobic, mind you.

Nothing so illogical.

I just... the amount I see

when I board an aircraft...

The pilot looks confident,

but I detect a slight tremor in his hands.

He's nervous. Is he hiding something?

If yes, what?

Has he had a few drinks to settle his nerves?

What about the mechanic performing a last-second check?

Why does he look so unhappy? Does he hate his job?

If he hates his job, how much care is he taking?

I get it.

You're still cross with me?

I was attempting to demonstrate my trust in you.

How?

By telling me something I already figured out?

You want more?

Detective Bell?

I just heard back from Charles Cooper.

He's on his way to the station.

Thought you might want to join us.

Owen called me last night,

uh, in a panic.

He said he needed my help.

It's glue again.

It's worse this time.

It's like he bathed in the stuff.

He told me he'd made a big mistake.

That he'd used the Key Star planes

to smuggle drugs.

Mr. Cooper, are you okay?

You look a little pale.

No, I guess I'm just in shock.

I mean...

O-Owen had worked for me for years.

He was a friend,

just like Joe was.

But he said that, uh,

Joe had figured it out

and threatened to call the police

if he didn't stop.

But Owen didn't want to stop, and so...

he, uh...

Mr. Cooper, did Owen tell you

he had something to do with the plane crash?

He wanted me to tell you guys that he was with me

at the time of Mr. Gerrard's murder.

But he wasn't.

Could you excuse us for a second?

Get a team over to Owen Barts' residence right now.

I'm gonna call for a warrant.

Ink will be dry before your foot goes through his door.

Yes, sir.

No Barts?

Lot of drawers tossed inside.

Looks like he packed a bag in a hurry.

Now, his car is gone too-- blue Toyota Camry.

We got a BOLO out.

What's weird is what is here.

Going by the dimensions, I'd say it's

a safe bet this is the weapon used to kill him.

Owen Barts kills

Hank Gerrard with this wrench, but he doesn't dispose of it

in some place we aren't gonna find it.

He doesn't even clean it.

He just leaves it in his garage?

Like I said, weird.

Not just weird.

Utterly ridiculous.

What's that?

Spartina patens.

It's a type of cord grass

which grows only in brackish water.

Brackish?

It's a combination of fresh and salt water.

Hmm.

It's still a bit moist,

which means the wrench was in the water...

recently.

I think someone did dispose of it

and retrieved it...

...and planted it here.

Probably right after they killed Owen Barts.

I get why

you think the wrench was planted,

but what makes you think Barts is dead?

His car.

You said it as a Camry?

Solid, practical choice.

But look at this--

full-synthetic motor oil.

It's high-end.

Used to maintain peak lubricity in high-performance engines.

Not the four-cylinder engine of a Camry.

Hmm.

Imagine you're Owen Barts.

You've just been told by your boss,

Charles Cooper, that he won't alibi you

for the murder of Hank Gerrard.

You decide to go on the lam.

You rush home...

you pack up your things,

and then you decide to leave what seems to be

between 50 and 100,000

of your hard-earned smuggling dollars

in your garage.

Not a chance.

So who else may have been profiting

from the smuggling operation at Key Star Charters, hmm?

Who else who would've seen Joe Newell as a threat

and had the technical know-how to sabotage his plane?

The same guy who told us

Owen Barts confessed to everything.

Charles Cooper.

I don't know how many times I can tell you.

Owen called me last night.

He told me that he sabotaged

Joe's plane.

I'm sorry if you can't find him.

Have you ever seen a poorer excuse for a liar?

Are you sure he did everything you said he did?

Note the pallor, the perspiration,

the inability to hold eye contact.

All telltale signs of deceit.

And some serious medical conditions.

I'm just saying, the guy looks like he's dying.

He's our murderer and our saboteur.

Now it's just a matter of getting him

to admit it.

Something wrong?

No, I just never noticed that scar before, that's all.

How'd you get it?

Boyhood misadventure.

Fell off a fence.

A compound fracture, hence the scar.

I just remembered an errand I forgot to run.

You gonna be okay on your own for a while?

Somehow I'll soldier on.

Problem?

He won't cop to it.

But he's on the precipice, you can tell.

He's sweating, his hands are trembling.

We've come at him

with everything we got; he won't budge.

Because he knows we got no proof.

His frame-up of Owen Barts may not have been perfect,

but he knows we can't show he had anything to do with it.

What?

It's got, it's got into you now. Model glue.

That's probably why he looks so ill.

Fumes are finally getting to him.

That's Cooper's glass, correct?

His third one, if you can believe it.

Cut him off.

No, no, no.

I think you should bring him a pitcher.

I was wondering if you could help me...

Alistair.

Miss Watson.

What a surprise.

But if you're here for an encore performance...

I know you're not just some actor Sherlock hired.

You know him.

He engaged me through my representation.

I've never even seen the man...

That story you told me,

the one about his broken wrist; it was true.

He would've never shared that with you

if you were just some actor.

Especially not to play some stupid prank.

How did you find me, if you don't mind me asking?

The receipt you dropped.

It had the name of this bookstore on it.

You got a 20% discount; members get ten.

I realized you must work here.

You've been spending quite a bit of time

with him, haven't you?

I really am an actor, you know.

In London, I had a small part in a radio drama.

Yeah, we still have those across the pond.

Sherlock wrote me a letter when he was ten, saying that I alone

of all the cast truly captured the Yorkshire accent.

Yeah, I thought it was odd.

But I was also very flattered.

So eventually, we met,

so I could coach him on its nuances.

We became friends.

Sherlock doesn't have friends.

Not in the traditional sense.

He drops in and out, appears at odd moments

to make outrageous and highly specific requests.

Respectfully, that doesn't sound much like a friendship to me.

Then perhaps you better revise your definition.

You can't expect Sherlock Holmes

to relate to you the way others might.

The moment you do, he'll migrate

out of your life, and you'll be the poorer for it.

You do realize that, don't you?

He told you about me, right?

Yeah.

You know what my job is?

I do.

And for what it's worth, um...

I'm very glad he has you.

You knew him when he was using?

Well, after I first came here in '06,

we mostly kept in touch by e-mail.

I knew he was dabbling on and off,

but I was confident that he would grow out of it.

Nine months ago, he shows up at my flat at night,

so high he could barely speak.

Well, I flushed his drugs

and I looked after him for a day or so.

It was very...

difficult for me to see his mind so addled.

He could barely stay conscious.

And when he kept muttering the same name again and again...

What name?

It doesn't matter.

I asked him about it the next morning.

He assured me it meant nothing.

Did you believe him?

Look... I want to help him,

but I think you know how difficult that can be.

I thought, if I could talk to you,

that maybe you could help me get a better sense of...

of what to do.

Anyway...

thank you...

for your time.

I'm sorry if I bothered you.

Miss Watson?

I have a strong suspicion that that name

meant more to him than he claimed.

I think perhaps you should have it.

Mr. Cooper.

Nice to see you again.

Do you need to urinate?

What?

Do you need to urinate?

No, I'm good, thanks.

Last night, when you struggled with your co-conspirator, Owen,

he nicked you with something.

A kitchen knife, perhaps?

Excuse me? Obviously, you...

you got the better of him, but given your pallor,

I'd say that the wound was significant.

I believed you earlier on when you said that you were in shock.

But now I think it's something else:

blood loss.

Pint or two, if I had to guess.

That's why you're so thirsty.

Your body needs to replace the fluids that it's lost.

If it didn't, then you'd have asked

to visit the loo quite some time ago.

I'm sorry, but you think I'm a killer

because I didn't go to the bathroom, hm?

That and the model glue.

You stink of it.

Initially, I'd assumed that you just

spilled some on your clothing,

but now that I know about the wound...

What wound?

The one beneath your clothing.

The one that you sealed with the adhesive

you use to build your model planes.

It's an old military trick.

Field medics use it to seal up a wound

when there isn't time for stitches.

You used it to avoid a trip to the hospital

'cause you didn't want the injury on record.

You know, I think I've given you guys

enough of my time today.

Okay, you want to leave? That's not a problem.

Just take off your shirt and your pants, show us I'm wrong.

I cut my side open

on a sharp piece of metal in my hangar last night.

I was going to get stitches, Owen called.

I was upset.

And I'd used glue on a cut before, so...

Let's say he's right, Mr. Cooper.

How much blood do you think ended up on Owen's body?

Do you know how easy it's gonna be for us

to tie you to his murder, once we find it?

I didn't murder anyone.

And there is no body. Course there is.

I even think I know where to find it.

Jamaica Bay or Alley Pond Park.

It was the wrench.

You threw it in a body of brackish water

after you murdered Hank Gerrard.

The only ones in New York are the ones I just mentioned.

Last night, when Owen called you and told you we were onto

the smuggling and the sabotage,

you went and retrieved it.

You killed him,

and then you planted it in his garage

so we'd pin everything on him and him alone.

Was a lazy bit of framing, if you ask me,

but you are wounded.

So...

here's the thing, Mr. Cooper.

I know that you killed Owen Barts,

just like I know that you killed your "friend" Joe Newell

and his passengers.

I also know that you like to hide things in brackish water.

Now, a dead body is considerably larger than a wrench,

but you were in no condition to dig a grave last night.

Jamaica Bay and Alley Pond Park

are very large areas, but the NYPD

is planning on searching them both.

You could save them

a great deal of time and trouble,

and tell them where Owen is, or you could continue to lie.

Thing is, if you lie, you'll just give the D.A.

more time to consider making this a federal case.

Uncle Sam doesn't take too kindly

to people who bring down planes.

The death penalty is a real possibility.

My advice?

Tell us everything you know.

The great State of New York will only give you life in prison.

I take it you made your case against Charles Cooper?

Ah, the police made the case.

I just lent a helping hand.

An enormous helping hand, but still.

What is it?

You look peculiar.

I guess there's a question I want to ask you.

About your past.

Excellent.

You wait here, I'll go to my room, shut the door.

As soon as you're absolutely certain I can't hear you,

ask away.

I know about Irene.

I want you to tell me about her.

== sync, corrected by elderman ==