So the Fringe crew takes in the bus stop crime scene, where Broyles introduces them to Chet Williams, who was diagnosed with Stage One melanoma just six hours ago. From the lab, Walter chortles, "Stage one. That has a survival rate of ninety-five percent. And that's without introducing even one frog rectally to slow cell division." Astrid's all, "What?" because seriously, what? She decides against relaying that little bit of info to the rest of the team.
Peter looks at the by now darkened streaks running down Chet's cheeks and asks if that's a bad mascara day, and everyone as usual ignores him making an ass of himself. Olivia asks Walter if someone can actually cry blood. Walter says certain viruses can cause bleeding from the tear ducts, but only after most of the organs are liquefied. To that end, he tells Astrid to check Chet's crotch, and then condescendingly tells her not to be a prude when she balks. She does so, and the lack of bleeding from the urethra AAAAAAAAHHHH STOP IT STOP IT! Anyway, Walter has decided Chet's organs haven't liquefied.
Peter wants to know what else could have caused this, and Walter starts rambling about a legendary alchemical mixture called the "tears of Ra" that Egyptians used to euthanize pets so that they could be buried with their owners who predeceased them. "But it's just a myth," he says. He tells them to bring the body back to the lab, and to bring some vanilla ice cream too. And he signs off with "Kirk out!" much to his own amusement, although it doesn't do anything for Farnsworthbot. She's too busy processing Walter speaking through Astrid. "Your Astrid, you talk through her. As if you were one person," she says. Walter agrees with that assessment, as well as her conclusion that it must be pleasant. "Yes, I suppose it is," he says.
While the police and agents mop up the scene, we see the activity reflected in the windows of a nearby building, including a silhouette of an Observer. There's a little something off about it, though; it's not quite a reflection, not quite a shadow, not quite us seeing him through the glass. But then the silhouette appears to step through the glass and out into the street -- this would be entirely in keeping with Observers' preference to stay unnoticed, of course. It's a new one. Let's call him "March," until we hear otherwise, in accordance with the glyph from last week. He takes out his little compass-cellphone-doohickey. "I think we have located it," he says into.