It's night, and someone in Las Vegas remembered to pay the power bill. They had to skimp on the public health department, though, which is why massive, highly communicable epidemics are breaking out up and down the Strip. At least, that's one possible explanation why we're seeing David the "Sanitized for My Protection" Coroner wandering the halls of a hotel in a hazmat suit. I should note that the first time I watched this episode, I had missed the set-up for this, so all I saw was the wavy clear lens and I wondered, "Why on earth are we getting the crime scene from a goldfish's perspective?" Now, in retrospect, I kind of wish TPTB would go in that direction. Wouldn't it be fun to see an episode from a housecat's perspective?
Anyway, David's walking down the hall, and as he heads into the hotel room, there's Vartann on the phone. Unfortunately, he neglected to put on a hazmat suit before heading in to say hi to Patient Zero. Even more unfortunately, he's still wearing clothes, period. David continues walking past the maid (who, in mid-freak-out, registers his presence and is not calmed by it), then heads into the main room, where he's been keeping Emergency Backup David as a test rat. If our Boy Coroner expires, then we've got a contagious disease. If not -- autopsy party at David's place! Emergency Backup David is still breathing -- albeit a little shallowly and rapidly -- but the woman on the bed, who is covered in circular, angry-looking sores, is not.
Cut to an angry-looking Catherine attempting to work her way through a hotel lobby. As she passes a crowd of stressed-out-looking patrons (all of whom, no doubt, are split between wondering if they've caught Ebola and wondering how they can get comped for the inconvenience of hanging out in the lobby in their bathrobes. Either that, or they're like, "At last! I'm in a hotel lobby in my bathrobe and there's not a damn thing security can do about it!") ANYWAY, Catherine fights her way through the crowd, only to be turned back at the yellow tape by a uniform who tells her, "Sorry, ma'am. I'm waiting for Catherine Willows. She's the one in the tank top? You're in a blazer and blouse, so it's clearly not you."
Catherine whips out her ID and repeats her name, and the guard covers his confusion by saying, "I know who you are. But the hotel rooms are under quarantine. No one goes up, no one comes down." Catherine's miffed at this.
Upstairs, David is busy poking about Patient Zero while Emergency Backup David tries not to pass out from holding his breath. Eventually, David peels off the bunny suit and announces to the suite of would-be disease vectors, "False alarm! We're clear." This is good news for Catherine, who's wandering into the suite as a suite escorts the still-shaken maid out. Vartann continues his streak of uselessness by remaining clothed, and Catherine trots into Patient Zero's bedroom, where David is busy looking at the body and Emergency Backup David is busy looking at his boss and thinking, "You were willing to let me die of Lassa Fever! What kind of sick employee evaluation was this?" Catherine then asks, "Someone want to fill me in here?" David says, "[Emergency Backup] David assessed a potentially infection agent, and per emergency protocol, he stayed at the site so I could suit up in this thing. Seniority has its perks, baby!" Oh, he does not. And he's not trying to murder Emergency Backup David by sending him out to get exposed to Marburg virus, Legionnaire's Disease, hantaviruses, or the sniffles. Emergency Backup David simply had the bad luck of the draw with this one; he defends himself with, "Her red blotches are consistent with CDC photos of Ebola." David assures him he made the right call. Catherine turns to Vartann and asks what they're looking at. He thinks it's a 419 -- suspicious circumstances -- but "honestly, I have no idea." The camera then zooms in on Catherine's image in the mirror. We're still watching her reflection as she says, "It's my turn now. Clear the scene."
The Who want to know who this mirror-gazing, quipless stranger is.
Anyway, we're off to Ms. Loakes's apartment. She has quite the home gym set-up. Nicky comments, "Doc Robbins did say Renita was in shape." Catherine checks out the array of cosmeceuticals on the counter. There's also a battery of supplements. Nicky photographs the contents of Ms. Loakes' library -- The Hamptons Diet, The South Beach Diet, Tai Chi for Slowing Aging. Ms. Loakes seems like she was a colossal, self-obsessed bore in life. Catherine pulls out Ms. Loakes's contribution to the world of letters -- a supplement diary. The woman evidently inhaled a habitat's worth of animal and plant matter prior to ingesting whatever ghastly blender concoction she called "breakfast." Nicky examines one big bottle and asks, "Do you think these supplements do any good?" Catherine gets all defensive and asks, "Why are you asking me?" "Because you're all glowy and pretty and stuff, and oh God, my foot's in my mouth!" blurts Nicky. Oh, he does not. He grins and points out, "I'm just asking a [rhetorical] question, Catherine. It's not about you." Maybe he only thinks that last part. Catherine sniffs, "Scientifically, there's not a whole lot of evidence [that supplements work]." She saunters on over to Ms. Loakes's vanity, which could double as a Sephora outlet. Catherine picks up one tube and container after another, all of which have three-figure price tags. So Loakes would have been totally broke by retirement age, but she would have had excellent skin. That's forward-thinking. Nicky comes over and sniffs, "More lotions and potions." Catherine snaps, "You gonna ask me if this stuff works too?" Nicky assumes the "give me patience, Lord" look before saying, "No. I'm going to process the bathroom. Also, YOU'RE STILL PRETTY, okay? So give it a rest already." Catherine looks appeased, even though I made up most of that quote. Proving that she was an insanely self-involved cipher in life, Ms. Loakes kept a giant, glossy framed photo of herself on the vanity.
Inside Ms. Loakes's lovely blue-and-white bathroom, there's a metal tray thing that's fitted in the toilet seat, and what looks like a white wine glass on the counter. Both have some traces of liquid in them. Nicky snaps a photo, then calls to Catherine that she might want to take a look at this. Catherine tears herself away from gazing at her own reflection long enough to walk in. Nicky greets her with, "Urine in the bedpan, and in the glass." The piano of perversity plays as we flash back to Ms. Loakes decanting her morning tinkle into the glass, then toasting herself in the mirror prior to drinking. Oh, my…I just keep getting hung up on the white wine glass, because now I'm like, "Did she decide it was okay to drink human urine with chicken and seafood? Was she maybe hoping for an oaky aftertaste, or some light pear notes on the finish?" And also -- what is the point of looking good at age 60 or so if you had to drink your own pee to get there? That's a long time. Plus everyone would be whispering, "She's a total pee-drinker, I know it."