Those two NYPD squad cars are certainly in a hurry, screaming around corners with their sirens and flashers going full blast. They enter a multi-story parking garage. On the top level is a car with three people inside. They all look at each other so we can learn their faces: a squinty guy with a goatee and a ponytail in the driver's seat, another suited guy with a thin beard, and a teenaged boy in the back. The two cop cars skid sideways into a position, sandwiching the sedan between them and all four officers hop out, guns drawn and leveled at the car. None of them notices the floaty letters overhead reading "QUEENS, NEW YORK," although this doesn't look like any part of Queens I've ever seen (and during a long, circuitous cab ride from LaGuardia, I once saw more of Queens than people who live there do). While one officer orders the men out of the car, another one named Williams radios, "Hostage appears unharmed," looking at the kid. After a pause, the two men look at each other and step out, hands raised. They comply with the order to get on their knees, but Beardo says, "You have no idea what you're dealing with." Of course not; the show's only been on a minute. Squinty squints up at the cop who ordered them out of the car, and the officer starts looking distinctly uncomfortable. And then he's slowly backing across the parking deck, dropping his gun on the way, finally toppling silently backward over the rail, clear down the center of the spiral parking ramp, his uniform fluttering softly in the breeze. Nobody reacts, until one of the cops takes a bullet in the neck -- courtesy of none other than officer Williams. Then she shoots the other cop down, and, clearly against her will, points the gun at her own head and pulls the trigger. In the back seat of the car, the kid flinches but doesn't look away. The horror!
After the titles, the Fringe Three are looking down over the same railing at what is now northing but a chalk outline below. Broyles briefs them: facial recognition should be able to do something with the clear security photos of the men within the hour, and ballistics confirmed that Officer Williams shot three cops, counting herself. "As far as we can tell, the kidnappers don't even have guns." As for the kid, Olivia's got the bullet on him: he's fifteen-year-old Tyler Carson, who disappeared 36 hours ago. "Walter, remember that conversation we had about personal space?" Peter asks his dad, who's either trying to read over Peter's shoulder or graft himself to Peter's back. Walter complains about what a boring crime scene this is: no bodies, no food. He doesn't even care that the bodies are being moved to his lab, because he's got it all figured out already: "Mesmerism. Hypnotism." Well, thanks for watching. "Walter, hypnosis can't make you do anything that you don't want to do," Peter reminds everyone, so Walter wanders off. Peter has found one possible clue: the kid's dad works for Fleming Monroe. "The aerospace division of Massive Dynamic," Broyles supplies. Of course.