Mr. Mercedes

Previously on "Mr. Mercedes"...

Last night when Sadie fell, you were standing with the ex-cop

who used to come visit Hartsfield.

He's a friend. Oh, friends are great.

A job's better.

The police have ruled it a suicide.

You don't think it was a suicide?

It doesn't matter what I think.

Can I ask what exactly you're doing here?

Bill thinks he's onto something.

Honestly, I think it just gives him an excuse

to keep following his obsession with Brady Hartsfield.

If you want to get into Sadie McDonald's head,

you should probably try and get into her phone.

Can't watch you hurt yourself anymore.

Steph, I know that you still care about me.

There's a difference between caring aboutsomeone

and caring forsomeone.

I'd like to see your daughter's phone, please.

Why? Because I share your suspicion.

I want to see if I can explain what happened.

Montez: How do you feel about pain?

Seize that moment.

Occupandi temporis, you little bitch.

What the fuck are you doing?

What's the connection between this and this?

I think he found a way to communicate with Sadie McDonald.

I'm in! Who's Matthew?

Boyfriend. "He's in my head.

I don't know how else to explain it."

It's the Zappits, dummy.

They hypnotize people.

The Zappits are just the doorway.

You need to walk through it. I'm in.

Let's get out of here, shall we?

I fucking knew it.

Sadie used the word "communicating."

Yeah, she was also off her fucking meds, so...

Look, never mind with the attitude.

I bring enough attitude to the fucking equation myself.

Don't need to outsource the task to you.

What else could "communicating" mean?

Uh... do you think Brady Hartsfield

was sitting on his bed and no one's looking

and he's chopping it up with the staff?

Did I say I think that?

Right, then what are we doing here? Seriously.

The truth of it is, none of it makes any fucking sense.

But?

I can't shake the idea that that's where the truth is.

Sadie McDonald was pregnant.

She was off her medications, and then on top of that,

she was fighting with her boyfriend, who described her

as, uh, "anxious on a good day."

I get a feeling for people.

She wasn't the sort to take her life.

You think suicide walks around with a fucking sign on its head?

Oh, she was moping around, so everybody thought,

"Oh, today, she's gonna leave Earth"?

That's not how it works, Hodges.

How does it work?

You wake up, you make breakfast, you write a funny note,

put it in a lunchbox, you pay bills,

you take a shower, you put some clean clothes on.

Then you leave another note... On the kitchen table this time.

You drive off to the lake, you take a bottle of pills,

swim to the middle of the lake, and you drown.

Your mother, uh, left a note?

Mm-hmm.

I always thought that there wasn't.

Yeah, I... I know what you thought.

I know what everybody thought. That was the idea.

But if I could describe my mom...

I'd say "mostly happy."

I'm sorry.

It was five years ago.

Still...

Can I ask you something?

Without you going off on me?

You can ask... no guarantees.

You think a part of you wants this case to go on?

That wants Brady Hartsfield to go on?

Why the fuck would I want that?

Don't tell me. Purpose, right?

I want a serial-killing, ice-cream fuck

to crawl out from his vegetative crypt

because it beats the shit out of playing Scrabble?

Is that it?

I agree with ya.

The whole notion is batshit.

Can't shake it, though?

No.

Let's go. We got things to do.

This flavor takes exactly like Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

You sure there aren't any calories in E-juice?

Can we like, do something?

Slut-face?

One sec. I've never gone this far.

Hey, you never told me your boyfriend drove such a sick car.

Check him out!

Oh, Barbara.

My, my.

How you've grown.

Ugh. He's so creepy.

Not even second period, and this is my third one today.

They're like locusts.

Granted, these are summer school students...

Not the most focused in the world... but wow.

They're not concentrating at all.

Listen, in our day, we at least used to pass notes.

These kids just sit there and stare at these things.

I'm Ida Silver, by the way.

Elliot Lee. Oh.

I'm a volunteer, too. Oh, teaching English?

Our mother tongue, in the age of emojis.

I can't believe we handed these things out to help them learn.

So much for progress. Mm-hmm.

Nice meeting you, Ida.

Same here.

The frontal cortex appears similar

to that of a healthy adult.

Montez: So, what you're saying is, he shouldn't

still be lying here like a vegetable?

My working theory is

it's an unexplained manifestation of mutism.

Do you see yourself retiring in 25 years

as the head of neurosurgery in Mercy General

in Bridgetown, Ohio?

No, I don't.

You want something more, right?

American dream?

Same here.

You know, there are only two possible steps after you run

the homicide unit for the D.A...

The district attorney itself

or straight off a fucking cliff.

Now, I'm going to be the district attorney,

take my boss's job, whether he says so or not.

But I need a case, Felix.

And no one's been thoughtful enough to slaughter

an entire family or thrill-kill a bunch of white women lately.

So I'm stuck looking for my case,

and this motherfucker's it.

I can't make him sit up and talk.

But you led me to believe that you could.

And I backed off your boss, which would be news to my boss.

I'm helping you, Felix.

You need to helpme.

Or?

Or...

I walk away.

And I look for someone else to plug

into the trial of the century, and you'll see

what it feels like to be on your own again.

Pretty soon, you'll be moving out of that big house

in Sugar Heights and joining me on Sycamore.

Well, there's nothing wrong with Sycamore.

Sycamore and Spring.

Oh.

Fuck you, dude. It's not bad.

Got myself a contemporary Craftsman,

just had it painted gray.

My wife loves it.

But she ain't gonna love it in five years.

I understand.

I've seen your wife.

I bet you do.

Andale, Doctor.

Make your medical magic bullshit happen.

Contemporary fucking Craftsman.