Elementary

(birds singing, dog barking in distance)

Hey, Adam, remember me?

- Going to school, huh? - Yeah.

Come on, I'll give you a ride.

It's okay. It's on my way.

What are those for?

They're for your parents.

Get in, I'll explain.

You're not dressed.

You said you'd go

jogging with me this morning.

Doesn't sound like me.

Have you been up all night?

I started digging through one of the files I keep

on open serial murders after you'd gone to bed,

and I lost track of time.

Still losing track of it, as a matter of fact,

so, no jogging. Sorry.

I thought we both agreed that a little exercise would

be a good addition to your sobriety regimen.

For future reference, when I say that I agree with you,

it means I'm not listening.

You know what else is great? Jazzercise.

I'll get you some leg warmers, a headband.

You'll look awesome.

I agree with you.

The Balloon Man?

Is that who you've been researching?

Yeah. Came to my attention

while I was still living in London.

New York's very own bogeyman.

- Obviously, you've heard of him. - Yeah.

He took his first victim

from Cobble Hill about seven years ago.

I was living just a few blocks away. Adam.

Adam something. I think he's taken

six kids since then?

- Seven as of last night. - What?

I heard it on my police scanner app around midnight.

Ten-year-old Mariana Castillo

snatched from her bedroom in Astoria, Queens,

the abductor's signature batch of balloons

left fluttering behind.

I'd like to think that Fleet Street would have devised

a more inventive sobriquet than "The Balloon Man,"

but I do enjoy the inadvertent E.E. Cummings reference.

Well, if you only heard it on the scanner, then you haven't

actually been assigned to the case.

Yet.

Child abductions and serial murders mean

psychiatric consultants and joint task forces,

which in turn means that Gregson can't call me in

until the police commissioner approves.

And he doesn't get in until 8:30 a.m.

Sharp. Add approximately three minutes for coffee,

another six for a trip to the loo.

Should be calling me in about, hmm, 15 minutes.

Or sooner.

Holmes.

Crescent Street, Astoria.

I'll be there presently.

I could have sworn I was wearing a shirt at some point.

The girl's bedroom

is in the back.

Perp forced the lock on her window around 9:30 last night,

took her, tied the balloons to her bed.

Mom's a painter. She went to a friend's gallery.

Dad went to the bodega on the corner

to get some wine around 9:45.

That's freshly broken.

By the girl, presumably, grabbing for a handhold.

That's good. She's a fighter.

If little girls could actually win fights

against grown men, then, yeah,

it would be a cause for great optimism.

What's this?

Parents are making a plea to the twist that took their kid.

They mustn't.

Why not?

Excuse me. You can't do this.

We're live in ten, buddy,

so if you wouldn't mind.

You don't understand. It's...

We're on in ten, nine, eight, seven, six,

five, four, three... Look, I'm sorry.

Two, one. Hey. Sherlock!

I'm sorry. I warned him! What is this?

Who are you? I'm just the man who's trying

to keep these people from killing your daughter.

Mr. Holmes is a consultant with the department, Mr. Castillo.

Daniel Peters, Kayla Jackson, Billy Crawford.

Victims two, three and five of the Balloon Man.

The only ones whose bodies were found.

Forensics estimated he kept Daniel alive

for a full day before burial, Kayla for half a day,

Billy for almost two days. Why the discrepancy?

Sherlock, they lost their daughter. I think...

Last night, I discovered a direct correlation

between the quickness

with which the killer dispatched his victims

and the extent of their parents' media exposure.

I could show you the spreadsheet,

but in sum-- the more interviews,

the faster the children died.

Is he right?

Usually.

I don't understand.

What does it matter how many interviews we do?

The Balloon Man feeds off the public grief

of his victims' families.

You nourish him, he'll get bored, end the game.

Keep him hungry,

we might have two days.

You want to get your little girl back?

It's simple. You do everything I say.

== sync, corrected by elderman ==

Kemper.

Hmm?

That was the name

of the Balloon Man's first victim.

Adam Kemper. I just remembered.

The police found those balloons on the sidewalk

where he'd taken Adam, the ones that said, "Thank you"

Like Adam's parents had given him some sort of gift.

I read all the articles over the years.

I know it destroys the victims' families,

but being here in person is just...

Perhaps you'd like to go outside.

I'm fine, thanks. I just...

No, it's not an expression of concern. It's a request.

You're distracting me.

I'm distracting you.

Because clearly, this is all about you.

Excuse me! No, no, no, no, it's okay.

Mr. Castillo, you can't

blame yourself for what happened.

Actually, he can.

Excuse me? Not for your daughter's

abduction, of course.

The kidnapper would have found a way to take her eventually.

But you can and should blame yourself

for impeding our investigation.

I told you everything.

If everything includes one very big lie.

Where's the wine that you claimed you were buying

when your daughter was taken last night?

In your hand.

And there's the lie.

Bodegas put the price tag on the cap itself.

It saves stacking time.

Tag-- bottom. You-- liar.

Obviously, you bought this at another time,

presumably from the liquor store

on Atlantic where you purchased

the case of Prosecco you have in your pantry.

The bottle was already in your fridge,

so it provided an effective cover

as to why you were really out of the house.

Tell us her name, Mr. Castillo, right now.

Whose name?

His mistress.

There's no point

in trying to deny it.

Your lemon press gave you away.

Well, presses, to be precise. One old.

One quite new, less than a year. The pattern

repeats itself with your two corkscrews,

the pepper mills. The older items

belong to you and your wife.

The doubles were bought by you when you moved

into your own place on Long Island. How...?

I found a letter in your mail forwarded to you

from a long-term stay hotel chain in Islip.

I assume that you and your wife separated

for a while, and then reconciled?

Which brings me to your Caller ID.

You took a 15-second call

from a Long Island area code

last night right before you stepped out of the house.

Presumably, from the woman who precipitated your separation.

She rang, you walked out of the house.

Why else would you hide information from the police

when you're clearly desperate to get your daughter back?

When Sara and I were separated, I dated a co-worker.

She called me last night, said she was in the neighborhood

and needed to see me, but I swear,

I only went out to tell her the she had

to stay away for good. How could you not say anything?

Where did you meet her?

On the street, a few houses down from here, but I swear,

I didn't go into her car. I just talked to her

through her window. I'd like to speak with her.

She had nothing to do with this. Probably not, but can you think

of anyone else who was parked on your block last night?

'Cause if she was waiting for you,

I assume she was facing your house.

If she was facing your house...

Maybe she saw something that

could help us find the guy who took your daughter.

I'm sorry. (sniffles)