Mors Praematura

You are being watched.

The government has a secret system,

a machine that spies on you every hour of every day.

I designed The Machine to detect acts of terror,

but it sees everything...

violent crimes involving ordinary people.

The government considers these people irrelevant.

We don't.

Hunted by the authorities, we work in secret.

You will never find us.

But victim or perpetrator, if your number's up, we'll find you.

Did you miss me?

We're gonna have so much fun together.

He's digging around, getting way too close.

Should we silence him?

We can't let him jeopardize our operation.

Put it to a vote.

I'm in, Finch. Care to tell me where?

The apartment you're in belongs to Ms. Shaw.

I promised to respect her boundaries,

but for eight hours, our agreed-upon means of contact

have gone unanswered.

So you tracked her down.

Ms. Shaw may be violent and uncommunicative,

but she is never tardy.

Something is amiss and I need you to find out what.

So what are you up to?

My waist, approximately.

Don't be so delicate, Harold.

I need you to get in there and dig.

See, people, they put business cards in dirty clothes,

jot phone numbers on napkins.

A single relative's name is all we need.

Oh.

Watch out for rats.

Rats?

As you may have guessed,

we have a new number. Timothy Sloan,

an estate investigator for the New York public administrator.

If somebody dies without an apparent next of kin

like the compulsive hoarder who used to live here,

they send in Sloan to find one.

So, when somebody dies,

Sloan figures out who gets their stuff.

Exactly.

I'm undercover as his new partner.

Finch, you know I don't like you heading into danger without me.

I'm not so thrilled about my current circumstances either,

but I need you where you are.

Speaking of which, have you found anything?

Nothing unexpected.

Raymond Chandler.

I grew up reading this stuff.

I always dreamed about becoming a detective.

Did you try the police academy?

Turns out they're not crazy

about hiring someone who can't shoot straight.

You check the fridge yet?

For a next of kin?

You'd be surprised what pops up behind moldy leftovers.

Oh.

Nothing in here but old milk,

an enormous quantity of something that used to be pasta, and...

Oh, wait.

What'd I tell you?

The cooler temperatures keep the film from fading.

Jackpot See for yourself.

Marcia the hoarder has a sister.

Which means we have an heir.

Good work, Harold. Our job here is done.

Mr. Reese, I have to leave now.

We found what we needed.

Unfortunately, so did I.

Taser confetti,

ejected whenever one is fired.

I suppose it's too much to hope she tased herself.

Knowing Shaw, it's possible.

But if I had to guess, I'd say she's in trouble.

Sorry about that.

Which part? The tasing, the drugging,

- or whatever this is? - Hmm.

I had to make sure you'd hear me out.

She needs our help, and...

I figured you wouldn't come willingly.

She?

The Machine's given me a mission,

and step one is to team up with you.

I'll pass. Trust issues.

Besides, The Machine gives missions to Harold

and the government, relevant, irrelevant.

Why would it be talking to you?

Because now, there's a third category.

Things are evolving.

And my relationship with The Machine is a little...

...different.

As for trust issues,

I'm happy to take the first step.

There's a gun for you in the glove compartment.

Thanks, but a knife will do just fine.

This is the part where you give me one good reason

why I should believe anything you say.

October 2, 1988.

You took a road trip with your father

to watch the Houston Oilers play the Philadelphia Eagles.

- He bought you a sweatshirt... - Don't talk about my father.

It told you that?

The Machine trusts me,

even if you don't.

You spent years working for The Machine,

and she was never wrong.

If you don't help me, someone might destroy her.

And innocent people will die.

Forget how you feel about me.

How would you feel about that?

Okay.

I'll forget how I feel about you.

But when this is over,

you better hope I don't remember.

- Good evening, Mr. Reese. - Staying out of trouble, Finch?

For the moment, although I'm not sure

our Mr. Sloan could say the same.

I hacked into his office network to see what he's up to.

It appears our estate investigator has taken an unorthodox interest

in a case that isn't his.

Jason Greenfield, died two weeks ago

of an apparent heroin overdose, no next of kin.

How is Sloan's interest unorthodox?

Would going to a dead man's apartment alone

in the middle of the night qualify?

Any progress in finding Ms. Shaw?

Her building doesn't have cameras, but the one across the street does.

And they agreed to let you see the footage?

After some convincing and a sleeper hold.

Point is I found out who took Shaw,

and you're not gonna like it.

Find them, Mr. Reese. Now.

Why the hell are you following me?

Contrary to the saying, his bite is far worse.

Trust me. Bear, still.

Now, perhaps you'd like to explain why you're breaking

into Jason Greenfield's apartment

and taking his possessions, including that watch.

I'm not a thief.

Read the back.

"To Jason Greenfield from the Sloan family."

You knew him?

Jason was my foster brother.

I'm here 'cause I'm trying to solve his murder.

It's... me and Jason.

His parents were addicts.

They burnt the house down cooking meth when he was 14.

My mom and dad had started fostering, so...

...instant brother.

When he was 18, my parents gave him this.

You know, just... just to remind him

that no matter what, he always had us.

- I just wish he believed it. - What do you mean?

Jason always messed around with hacking.

And after moving out, he got more obsessed,

and spent more and more time with other hackers.

Finally just fell off the map.

Two weeks ago, I'm looking at another investigator's case files,

and I see his name. I couldn't believe it.

I mean, he swore that he would never start using.

Now, he dies of an OD?

- People do change. - Not Jason.

Not-not... Not about that.

The minute I walked in, I knew.

I mean, I've been to the homes of a lot of heroin addicts who died.

You know what you don't see?

High-end TV.

Stereo.

Gold watch, huh?

It all goes to getting their fix.

You think someone killed him, then covered it up. Why?

I'm not sure. But let's take a look at what isn't here.

No computer, no tablet, no phone.

What kind of hacker doesn't have a computer?

It does seem strange.

You found nothing with any data in it whatsoever?

I found a flash drive in the microwave before you came in.

Looks like he fried it.

May I? I'd like to help if I can.

Jason may have tried to destroy the contents of the drive.

Yes, it's largely been wiped clean.

Wait. There's a fragment of stray data.

It's a piece of an e-mail.

- What does it say? - I can only recover a few words.

"You don't understand. If I try to leave, they'll kill me".

The question is, who are they?

And What is this?

I found it in Jason's jacket.

It's an address for...

...a storage unit.

That is weird.

Our guys checked. He didn't have a storage unit.

Yeah, sure.

Hmm.

That's one way to lower your cholesterol.

HR's protection payment. Dirty money for dirty cops.