Currying favor once more with the fine folks at local law enforcement, we find Jim banging his head up against the walls of justice, standing at the front desk of the sheriff's station and barking, "Oswald Wilkes!" Why would he even go back there? Sheriff Relaxo sits with his feet up, cross-examining where Jim could have come across this information. He doesn't think some tattoo artist is a reliable source of information, but Jim rather begs to differ: "You now have a witness to the murder and a positive identification of the murderer. It is a start." Sheriff Relaxo gets up and does that now-where-do-you-think-you're-going-in-such-a-hurry-junior fat-cop swagger around the room, passing behind Jim and explaining that the tattoo artist is "not really a central figure in the community," turning on Jim when he sees the tattoo sweating through his button-down. He vamps, "Laid some ink on you, did he?" Is that tattoo artist lingo? If so, they should probably confine their instances of using such expressions to their in-house newsletter, and maybe when they get together every year for TattooCon in Vegas. Me, I don't want to hear a thing more about it. Jim wants to know why such adventures in, uh, ink-laying should be germane to the investigation, and Sheriff Relaxo is temporarily not as dumb as he looks, asking, "He still use peyote to cut the pain?" Jim freaks that two people have been murdered and no one seems to care, and the fight with Sheriff Relaxo escalates to where the cop leans across the desk and bellows, "I have an eyewitness account from a known drug addict. That's you. And I have a name from one of the few miscreants we have here in this community." Ouch. Jim explains his job again and paints himself as a noble public servant, and he leaves in a huff as Liz Vassey gets off her one line: "Regis is on." Shut up, cross-pollinating free advertising. At least this channel doesn't have The Other Half.
Jim hits the parking lot and his cell phone rings. It's Grace, and the news is not good: "I couldn't find either of their 1040s." Jim's not overly surprised, rationalizing, "Criminals frequently don't file." But wait! There's more! "I also did something else. I went to the federal database, and I did a 7C search on the entire town." Jim really clunkily explains away this development and reminds us just how "about math" this show continues to be, sounding alarmed: "That's the most exhaustive search we have, and only for the most serious issues we face. I've certainly never done one. I don't think anyone in our office has ever done one." He thinks on it: "Ira okayed it?" No. She asks if he wants to know what she discovered and please sweet baby Jesus get on with it. Grace: "No one in Push, Nevada has filed an income tax return in seventeen years." The camera pulls back and leaves Jim standing alone on the sand, holding his phone all dumbfounded. If anyone's looking for me, I'll be doing a 7C search on this episode's script, looking for trace elements of interesting dialogue that might have accidentally blown off a nearby Sopranos script that shared a table at Coffee Bean.
Nah. It's clear. Good thing for that test, though.