What's Eating Gilbert Grissom?

Episode Report Card
Sobell: B+ | Grade It Now!
This episode had nothing to do with food

Sara's gonna have to put down the puzzle soon, because Catherine's hurtling toward the victims' common denominator, powered by the magical velocity of the 48-minute mark. Long story short: all the women had visited the copy shop right before their abduction.

Within seconds, a dozen squad cars have converged on the copy center, and Brass has identified the long-term Xerox jockey Kevin Greer. He's been on the job since 1983. Brass has a talk with the laconic undergrad who's probably just there to satisfy the terms of his financial aid package, and we quickly establish that Kevin just took off, he's not what you'd call popular with the kids, and he uses the handy comb binding machine to assemble his comic books. Catherine finds a cache of black plastic trash bags with a lot of toner on them,

Then everyone teleports to the Kasa De Kevin. As they go through the darkened house, a rhythmic racket makes it hard for anyone to hear themselves think. This is when I expect Brass to turn to someone and snap, "Just once, I'd like a New Age serial killer, so when I go through their empty house, it's all chimes and lit aromatherapy candles. This way, I can hear myself think and see where I'm going." Because, really. The dank little hovels get old.

At least everyone can find the root of the racket and fix that problem. It's a professional-quality paint shaking machine, busy agitating paint just in case we've all forgotten that this is the Blue Paint Killer they're dealing with. Catherine realizes, "He mixed his own paint so we couldn't trace the origin of his purchase." And because -- as we've established earlier -- serial killers have a lot of time on their hands. Rejecting society's codes frees you up to pursue a lot of new hobbies.

Like calling the police at your own house and taunting them: "Las Vegas's finest. Nice job. Impressive turnout. Have a look around. I'll be at the station waiting for you." Gil does not look pleased by this invitation at all.

Cut to a shot of a door opening on the Blue Paint Killer. My God, it's Berke Breathed! Opus, no! Kevin cheerily greets the guys with, "Gil, Jim." He smiles, and we see that Kevin evidently grew up in a household without access to fluoridated water. Either that, or he's been gargling coffee nonstop for the past twenty years without brushing his teeth once. Kevin says, in the same mild and amiable tone, "My rule was, if you made it to my house, you deserved to meet me. I mean, how much time did you guys spend picturing the size of my hands?" Gil has put on the glasses and the remote expression. ("Default expression 1.1," the husband cracks from the depths of the couch.) Kevin holds up a pen-wielding hand and says, "Not very big."

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