In any event, I'm in the throes of an "alternative underground" flashback and Gil's in the throes of a "hey, this is the killer" moment. He recovers enough to find out the guy trades comics for store credit, he recently traded credit for a doll, and the artist in question, one Zippy Tee, is "average-looking."
David the Déjà Vu Coroner is checking out the body -- now stink-free, if the lack of pursed lips and wrinkled noses is anything to go by -- and commenting that this body reminds him of many others: blue paint on the hand, physical signs of sexual assault, ligature marks around the neck. Catherine follows a hunch and compares a picture of late pledge Jonathan with the Jane Doe on the slab; they're both pretty in a blond, fine-boned way. Catherine comments, "None of his other victims looked alike." "So why these two?" David asks. "Maybe it was a mistake," Catherine theorizes. "Mistaken for a girl?" David wonders. We flash back to the waify blond people wandering through the misty bracken. Catherine points out that Jonathan wasn't mistaken for just any girl, but this specific girl. Catherine concludes, "We thought he selected his victims at random. He didn't. He chose her. He hunted her, he trapped her."
And she had a name: Kaitlin Rackish. Her roommate, who sounds moments away from breaking into fresh tears, is talking to Catherine. Although the girl hadn't seen Kaitlin since Monday, on account of it being pledge week and all, she can still recall what the two of them did on their last day together: they went to the gym, went to the dining hall, picked up their term paper orders from the campus copy union, bought sodas from the bookstore, went to the library to study, and then Katy headed off to her 7 PM class, "Introduction to the Female Form." The music gets all ominous as Catherine tweaks the ol' memory banks with, "Cody Lewis?" He was a glasses-wearing, art-committing suspect the last time. The roomie betrays a glimmer of a crush with a wistful look and a sighed explanation: "He got me interested in art."
He's made quite the aesthete out of Brass too. Cody is looking at the X-rated comic Gil picked up as Brass snorts, "Introduction to the Female Form. That's deep. I bet that brings in all the 17-year-old pre-feminists." Yes, and then they head to the book-hurling seminar I mentioned back on page one. Cody looks up and says that the comic art isn't his; he elaborates, "The technique isn't bad, but it's raw. This person hasn't had any formal training at all." This has got to be hard on him. Do you suppose he's looking at the art and wondering how much of it was inspired by his old dead girlfriend? Brass doesn't think so: "Maybe it's your alter-ego. You know, the bad boy side. The Mr. Hyde thing." Cody points out that he came in voluntarily, out of a sense of civic duty, but that sense is rapidly dissolving. Brass insincerely says, "I appreciate your help, I really do," and let me just admit right here, I have not given Paul Guilfoyle the credit he deserves for what he does with his lines. So it's time to rectify that: he does a great noir delivery, skating the thin line between cordial and hostile, and his scenes are consistently enjoyable for the characterization he brings to Captain Exposition.