Catherine points out that Audrey didn't pick up when Sugarman called her two minutes before the movie started. Audrey rebuts that she was screening, and she figured he'd take the hint. Gil asks, "Then why did you call him three times in a row forty minutes later?" Because she's sending mixed signals, Gil. Audrey's all, "I felt bad for standing him up. I wanted to apologize. I figured I'd get his voicemail, but when I didn't, I tried again." Wow, that's both rude and cowardly. We go into the usual where-were-you-the-night-of-the-murder dance, and right then, the phone rings. Audrey is still screening her calls, and looking mighty nervous about it. Gil notices a schedule tacked on her wall -- featuring such classics as Rope, Vertigo, The Birds, North by Northwest, This Gun for Hire, Apocalypse Now, and 20011: A Space Odyssey (yes, there's an extra "1" at the end) -- and asks Audrey if she sees a lot of films at the Art House Theatre. Audrey says she does; she loves old movies. Gil says, "I see they recently had a Hitchcock retrospective." Audrey's all, "I prefer French New Wave. If you'll excuse me now, I have to go to work." And she takes off before Gil can quiz her about Truffaut.

Back in the morgue, David's pulling the sheet off Tim-may, and Warrick sucks in his breath as he asks, "What, was this kid tortured?" David rattles off the injuries: "Couple of fractured ribs, deep purple contusions on the presternal chest wall, each one around two inches in diameter. I stopped counting around nine." Warrick wonders what could have made those marks; David's got no idea, but whatever it was had a great deal of velocity. David continues, "Cause of death: single gunshot to the chest. No gunshot residue." Warrick tells us that this means Timmy was shot from a distance. He whips out a slender metal rod -- and can I say that this is my least-favorite of all the CSI tricks they've whipped out this year? I really don't like watching people get skewered like fruit slices in girly drinks. Warrick pokes around some and deduces, "At a downward angle. It's about 25 degrees. He was shot from above." We flash back to Timmy having a beer with friends while someone shoots him from an alcove above. Warrick continues doing the math: "The rooftop is 45 degrees. This is 25. It's impossible." David's looking concerned; he adds, "If that's the case, he was shot by somebody 10 to 15 feet tall." Warrick decides to move on; we find out that Timmy also had a boatload of scabs. There's some badinage about the significance of the scabs, but nothing worth repeating.