All language subtitles for Remington Steele s01e18 Steele in the News.eng

[Laura]
Try this for a deep, dark secret...

The great detective
Remington Steele?

He doesn't exist.
I invented him.

Follow...
I always loved excitement.

So I studied and apprenticed...

and put my name on an office.

But absolutely nobody
knocked down my door.

A female private investigator
seemed so... feminine.

So I invented a superior.

A decidedly masculine superior.

Suddenly, there were cases
around the block.

It was working like a charm.

Until the day he walked in...

with his blue eyes
and mysterious past.

And before I knew it...

he assumed
Remington Steele's identity.

Now I do the work,
and he takes the bows.

It's a dangerous way to live...

but as long as people buy it...

I can get thejob done.

We never mix business
with pleasure.

Well, almost never.

I don't even know
his real name.

Laura, wait.

Remington Steele to give an interview?

[Sniffs]
Ah, can you smell it, Laura?

Smells like an old liverwurst sandwich.

Oh, the stench of professionalism,
the odor of objectivity.

Oops.
[Chuckling]

Shades of Sevareid, Cronkite, Hugh Downs.

Oh, trench coats and drizzle.

The sound of ack-ack
pounding on a distant shore.

And there, in the very thick of it all,
the man with the microphone.

[Sighs]
I always wanted to be a reporter...

ever since I saw Joel McCrea
in Foreign Correspondent.

- So did I.
- Hmm? You wanted to beJoel McCrea?

- A reporter.
- Really?

Oh. And we learn another
little facet of Laura Holt.

- [Sighs]
- And all because of that man.

Hmm?

Mr. Walsh! Toupee time!

Doesn't look much
likeJoel McCrea to me.

He lectured
my freshman year in college.

The stories he's covered,
the places he's been.

For months afterwards,
I dreamed of flying off...

to Tangier, Maracaibo, Macao.

What dissuaded you?

It was much more romantic
than realistic.

- Besides, I was on a math scholarship.
- Oh. Regrets?

- A few.
- Oh.

- Mr. Steele.
- Yes.

- I'm Amy Fogelson, Russell Stewart's assistant.
- Oh, how do you do?

Um, my associate, Laura Holt.

- Hello.
- Hello.

Why don't we find a quiet spot to do
a little preliminary background on you...

before Mr. Stewart takes over?

Oh, of course.

Remember, the interview with Russell Stewart
is merely a cover for our being here.

Fear not. While she's pumping me,
I'll be pumping her.

- The Fogelson kid buy it?
- Why shouldn't she, Mr. Greene?

Remington Steele is always
being asked to give interviews.

I just hope he doesn't have
any skeletons in his closet.

Russell loves to rattle 'em
for all the world to see.

Hmm.

You sounded very cryptic
over the phone, Mr. Greene.

It started two weeks ago. At first I thought
they were just routine foul-ups.

Instead of the news on the teleprompter,
there were nursery rhymes.

"Mary Had A Little Lamb,"
stuff like that.

Wrong film was substituted.

Somebody reversed the basketball scores,
changed the temperatures on the weather map.

Made my news team look
like a pack of blithering idiots.

- You think it's deliberate.
- What do you know about the ratings, Miss Holt?

- Arbitron? Nielson?
- I've heard of them.

We in television live and die by them.
They're our god.

Our ticket to heaven or hell.

Channel 3 News was in the ratings dumper
when I took over as station manager.

If it was up to me, I would've canceled it,
put on reruns of Barney Miller.

The F.C.C. Has this rule about television
stations performing in the public interest...

so I had to keep the damn news on.

- Only you found a way to...
- Jazz it up, give it pizzazz.

I mean,
the news is generally so depressing.

All those famines, fires, floods.
Who wants to see that every night?

So I put in a happy news format. A little
chitchat between all the rapes and murders.

And I wanna tell you... the public ate it up.
Our ratings doubled.

Aside from a moral question,
I still can't see the connection.

Television is a cutthroat business.
Dog eat dog.

There's fierce competition
for the advertising dollar...

and for every rating point you get,
another station loses one.

You suspect a rival station
is sabotaging you?

I make no accusations.

I just want Steele to find out who's behind it
and bring the culprit to justice.

But it's got to be done quietly.

If this gets out, we'll be the laughingstock
of the television community.

[Man]
All right, everybody. Magic time.!

[Man]
All right, everybody. Magic time.!

Fifteen seconds to air.

Energy, people!

Energy, energy.!

Remember, we love our work,
and we love each other.

We're happy and we show it, huh?

- ¢Ü¢Û¢Ü¢Û[Theme Song]
- [Announcer] And now from the Channel 3 Studios...

it's Spotlight News...

featuring Hoop Tracy on sports,
Uncle Tim with the weather...

and investigative reporter
Russell Stewart.

And now with the news, the Southland's
most innovative news personalities...

Elliot Walsh and Chrissie Carstairs.

Good evening.
And good evening to you, Elliot.

- I hope you had a nice day.
- Excellent, Chrissie. Excellent.

- And how was your day?
- Filled, Elliot. Filled.

Dateline Rome:

Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding
Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner...

vehemently denied rumors
that she's secretly contemplating...

yet another trek down the aisle...

with a mysterious Argentinean suitor,
identified only as Flavio.

- Elliot?
- And speaking of rumors, Chrissie...

a palace spokesman today
denied reports...

that Princess Di is pregnant again.

Well, that's too bad.

I'm sure the whole world would welcome
another bun in the royal oven.

And speaking of ovens, how hot
was it for the Lakers tonight, Hoop?

Sizzling, Chrissie.
We'll have all the highlights later.

Thanks a heap, Hoop.
Look forward to that.

And now Uncle Tim will give us a hint
as to what to expect weather-wise.

I think it's going to rain, Elliot.

I'd say that's a safe bet, Chrissie.

And speaking of bets, Spotlight News
investigative reporter Russell Stewart...

will give us a glimpse
of his five-part series...

on bookmaking in the Southland.

Good God!
Did that go out over the air?

No, no.
We were still on Chrissie.

She's gonna lose her cookies.!
Go to a commercial.!

Commercial.

The safety clamp on that lamp
was definitely sheared.

- No question about it.
- [Grunts]

I can't believe a competing station
would resort to something like this...

no matter how desperate
they were for, uh...

- What do you call them?
- Ratings.

You actually think these television people
would kill for ratings?

- I've heard it said.
- Hmm.

Desperate lot.

Well, if it wasn't sabotage
to discredit Spotlight News...

and drive viewers away
from Channel 3...

maybe whoever was occupying
that chair was the target.

Uh, let's see.

First of all,
we have the female jockstrap.

"Jock."
Athletes are called jocks.

Hmm. Quaint terminology
you have for your sports figures.

- Uncle Tim took her place.
- Russell Stewart was about to, until the light fell.

Thank God they didn't get him.

You watch Spotlight News?

Hey, the news is very depressing
these days...

and Russell Stewart's hot to look at.

If you're gonna get depressed,
you might as well get turned on doing it.

Mr. Greene certainly knows
what his audience tunes in for.

I say we split up.

Each of us interrogate
a possible victim...

and see if there's any truth
behind Murphy's, uh, theory.

- You just stay clear of Russell Stewart.
- Why?

I don't want him asking you
any embarrassing questions.

Mmm. Child's play
for a seasoned prevaricator.

Hoop Tracy is a lot safer.
I'll deal with Mr. Stewart.

- Well.
- That leaves me with Uncle Tim.

- Why do I always get the weirdos?
- [Chuckling]

Perhaps because you, uh,
relate so well to them, Murphy.

Excuse me. Um, Mr., um...

Tim.

- I'm Murphy Michaels, Tim, and I, uh...
- Mr. Tim.

- Pardon?
- [Clinking]

My first name's Uncle.
My last name's Tim.

Had it changed legally,
so you can call me Mr. Tim.

Right. I represent the insurance company
that carries the policy on the station.

That was a very close call the other night.
A few more seconds, you might not be around.

But I am,
so what's your point, sonny?

The point is,
the light was rigged to fall.

Anybody around here who might
want to see you under it?

Nobody wants to kill me.

And if they did,
I know exactly who it is!

I always get 'em.

Uh, Miss Hoop... I must say you have
an excellent stride, Miss Hoop.

I was power forward
on my college basketball team.

Ah, I've always enjoyed motorized sports.

All right, guys. Grab your helmets.

Let's talk about last Sunday's tragedy.

- [All Groaning]
- Get out of here!

What about you, Markowski?

Wanna explain why the coach called for
a field goal with 10 seconds left to play...

when you were down by four points?

Hey, the coach coaches. I just kick.

Ah. Yeah. Hmm.

How 'bout you, Wemlinger?

Wanna tell your mother why the winning
touchdown pass bounced off your helmet?

- [Scoffs]
- [Clears Throat]

If they could move that fast on the field,
we'd have an unbeatable team.

I sense you rather enjoyed that.

Listen, cutes, when I got to be a sports reporter,
women weren't allowed in a men's locker room...

so I used to have to sit
in the equipment office and wait...

until someone deigned to come out
to give me an interview.

More often than not,
they forgot that I was there.

So I used to have to go back
to the station empty-handed.

So, I got a court order
allowing all qualified reporters...

regardless of gender,
access to the locker rooms.

So you better believe I love to see
their little tushes flapping in the breeze.

- Makes for great visual commentary.
- Oh!

Any of those gentlemen angry enough to want
you removed from the sports scene permanently?

I'd be disappointed if they weren't.
It would mean I wasn't doing my job.

Then you wouldn't be surprised to find that
that falling light was intended for you?

- You mean it wasn't an accident?
- Mm-mmm.

No. I don't think any of the guys
I've gone after would resort to that.

I mean,
bad press is all part of the game.

A game you play exceedingly well,
Miss Hoop.

I like you, limey. You're kinda novel.

Wanna hoist some brewskis with me
after the show tonight?

I'm all for new experiences.

- Attaboy!
- Oh!

That light was meant for me.

Why would someone want to kill you?

Because of who I am, what I do.

I've helped put several people
in prison, Miss Holt.

Frauds, charlatans, con men.

- There it is.
- What?

The site of my next expose.

I'm going to film a vice officer...

receiving a payoff
from a flesh peddler.

If I were you, I wouldn't sound
quite so nonchalant about it.

It's my job.

That's a very courageous attitude.

I'm a very courageous guy,
and not a bad dancer.

I have a thirst... call it a lust...

for the truth,
for a certain justice in the world...

for honesty in institutions
as well as personal relationships.

Admirable.

And what do you lust for, Miss Holt?

- That depends on who I'm with.
- And if you were with me?

I'd hardly know where to begin,
Mr. Stewart.

[Chuckling]
We'll call this first round a draw.

But I warn you... I never leave a fight
unless I'm carried out.

[Woman]
I can't find Uncle Tim anywhere.

[Woman]
I can't find Uncle Tim anywhere.

It's 15 minutes to air!
What do you mean, you can't find Uncle Tim?

I sent someone to his apartment,
and I called all his local hangouts.

- I mean, what am I, the F.B.I.?
- All right, all right!

- I don't know what else to do.
- Let's get a grip on each other.

We're all professionals here.

If he doesn't show up on time,
somebody's gotta do the weather.

- Why?
- Please, Elliot. This is no time for your wry humor.

Hoop, you used to do the weather.

What about filling in for Uncle Tim?

They don't have weather girls anymore, Ed.
It's considered sexist.

- I'll take a shot at it.
- Sorry, kid.

You got a behind-the-scenes face.
Chrissie, get over here.

I don't know anything about the weather.

That never stopped Uncle Tim.

What's to know? Read it from
the teleprompter and point at the map.

Come on. I'll run you through it.

After Elliot introduces you...

you step over here,
and you start with the local forecast.

Where's the weather copy?

"Light to moderate rain."

So you hit the rain button.

[Screams, Gasps]

Looks like a blow
to the back of the head.

There you are.
It was obviously an accident.

He was checking his water trough...

fell in, hit his head.

Just like falling in a bathtub.
Happens every day.

At least now we know
whom the killer was after.

Always good to narrow
those things down.

One minute and 30 seconds to air.

All right, everybody.
Places. Where's Chrissie?

Probably locked in her dressing room.

Chrissie? Open up. We have a show to do.
The news must go on.

- Why?
- Find a key.

It's the same thing every night.
Inflation, unemployment.

Why don't you just rerun
last night's news?

- They'll never know the difference.
- Just a minute, everybody.

I'll handle this. Please stand back
and give me some room.

- Don't you think you should...
- Laura, you know how long I've waited to do this.

Chrissie, if you don't come out right now...

- Hoop's our new anchorwoman.
- [Yells]

[Murphy Screams]

- Who was that?
- Never mind.

Places, everyone.

[Groaning]

[Moaning]

I should've kicked it in.

What would be your assessment of all the
mishaps here at the station, Miss Fogelson...

culminating in the death of Uncle Tim?

I really couldn't say.

Who would want
to kill a weatherman?

Anybody who was interested
in journalism.

I hate to break the unwritten rule
about speaking ill of the dead...

but Uncle Tim
was third-rate burlesque.

That's not a news team. It's a circus.

Some clown pours water on his head
to tell people something they already know?

Yet you volunteered
to take that clown's place.

I was trying to help in an emergency.

No matter how comedic the man's life
may have been, it was still taken...

and someone is responsible.

That's your specialty, Mr. Steele.

Mine is research.

According to your official bio, which
can mercifully be described as sketchy...

you were connected with
certain government agencies...

and international organizations.

If you despise the Spotlight News so much,
why do you stay?

I have to eat.

However, neither the Central Intelligence
Agency, Interpol or Ml5...

have any record of you.

A death seems more important than the
humble beginnings of a private investigator.

- Don't you agree, Miss Fogelson?
- Who are you, Mr. Steele?

- My life's an open book.
- With a lot of blank pages.

- I have nothing to hide.
- Oh, we all have something to hide.

The trick is finding out what it is.

[Chuckles]

- Ah, Miss Holt!
- Mr. Walsh.

This hardly seems the place
for such a young lady.

- Sit.
- You left this number with the station.

Now you've discovered my secret vice.

Terrible about Uncle Tim.
That's why you're here, isn't it?

I must confess...

in all the time I've been doing
Spotlight News...

I barely spoke two words
to that man.

May I ask you something personal?

If you don't want to answer,
just say so. I won't be offended.

Please.

You lectured at my college
during my freshman year...

and it really affected me,
my outlook on a lot of things.

I remember you once said,
"A good reporter gives the facts...

a great reporter understands
their meaning."

I wanted to talk to you afterwards...

but courage is a fleeting thing
when you're that age.

It can leave at any age, Miss Holt.

Why would somebody with your background
and your experience...

Be anchoring Spotlight News?

I don't mean to sound
condescending or critical.

It's just that it seems
so far beneath you.

You have to change with the times,
roll with the punches, go with the flow.

Actually, I'm grateful to be doing it.

You see, my kind of reporting
is practically passe.

Oh, there are still a few
who dig for a story...

do their own research,
write their own copy...

but they're rare in this day
of male models and junk food news.

Oh, may I?

I remember when I was a little girl...

my father used to dance
with me like this.

He'd pick me up in his arms so that my feet
would dangle way above the floor...

and he'd twirl me around the living room.

Careful, Miss Holt.
Nostalgia is a dangerous disease.

Highly contagious
and almost impossible to cure.

Do you have any theories
about Uncle Tim's death?

A good reporter always has theories.

Care to share them with a fan?

Uncle Tim... he was what
we used to call a goofball.

Not terribly bright,
not terribly offensive, harmless enough.

Now, Chrissie is up...

for a network anchor job in New York...

and she had no intention
of taking him with her.

You see,
she thought he was an albatross...

something to be discarded as quickly
and painlessly as possible.

Why would Uncle Tim care
whether Chrissie Carstairs...

took him with her
when she went to New York?

He was her husband.

It wasn't generally known
outside the station...

but they were married
when she was a struggling model.

He paid for a nose job and a few other
anatomical refinements...

and when the job came up at the station,
he got Greene to hire her.

Naturally, he felt that when
she made it big, so should he...

after all he'd done for her.

She, of course, had other ideas.

- The kind that lead to murder?
- Ah!

Theories are just that.
Just an old reporter's instinct.

- ¢Ü¢Û¢Ü¢Û[Country On Jukebox]
- To Uncle Tim.

Uncle Tim.

At least now he won't have to risk
pneumonia every time it rains.

[Both Chuckle]

Can you imagine what Ed would have made him
do if we lived somewhere where it snowed?

I take it you're not very pleased with
the way the news is presented on Channel 3.

We'll go down as the first station
in television history to presentJiggle News.

Have you seen the way Chrissie
bounces around out there?

I have it on good authority she's had everything
enlarged... except, of course, her brain.

She has more surgical scars
than Frankenstein.

Only he has a higher I.Q.

Damn it!

Why couldn't she have been
the one in the water trough?

Oh.

What exactly did Chrissie Carstairs do
to earn your enmity?

Ed promised me the anchor slot.

And then Chrissie wiggled
into his line of sight...

and "Slam, bam, thank you, ma'am,"
she got it.

Are you inferring that she
slept her way into the job?

Chrissie does her best work
from the prone position.

I didn't have any leverage
in that department.

I'd already slept with Ed
to get the sports assignment.

This is beginning to resemble
a segment of Spotlight News.

Think anyone would notice
if I had Chrissie put to sleep?

[Escalating Tone]

- Ah, here's the happy family.
- [Groans]

- How's the arm?
- Numb. Very numb.

Perhaps this will restore the circulation.

Chrissie Carstairs slept with Ed Greene
to get the anchorwoman's job.

I can top that.
She was secretly married to Uncle Tim.

Oh, dear me.
Channel 3 is a veritable Peyton Place.

Lana Turner. Lee Philips.
Twentieth Century Fox, 1957.

Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

[Sighs]
Go on, Murph.

Everybody seems to be what they say they are,
except Amy Fogelson.

- What's her story?
- That's just it. She hasn't got one.

She seems to have sprung full-blown
when she got the job six months ago.

What did her application say?

That's another funny thing.
She never filled one out.

She got the job on Elliot Walsh's
personal recommendation.

Amy Fogelson and Hoop Tracy
shared an intense revulsion...

at the way the news
was exploited on Channel 3.

But could that be reason enough
to kill a poor buffoon like Uncle Tim?

Murders have been committed
for far less logical reasons than that.

But Chrissie Carstairs considered
her husband excess baggage.

She wanted to get rid of him before she
moved on to bigger and better things.

And he did say if somebody was trying
to kill him, he knew exactly who it was.

She might just wind up
as the lead story on her own newscast.

Before we go charging off,
I think you should know...

that Miss Fogelson is determined
to unearth the truth...

about Remington Steele.

Oh, I knew that interview cover
was a mistake.

Yes. Well, don't worry, Laura.

Rather than embarrass
and jeopardize you and the agency...

- I'm prepared to do the honorable thing.
- You're gonna leave?

I was thinking more along the lines
of stealing her notes.

- [Painful Yell]
- Ah, splendid!

Glad to see feeling's returned.
Always a good sign.

[Doorbell Ringing]

[Doorbell Ringing]

Oh. I thought you were the deli.

May we speak to you, Miss Carstairs?

I'm... I'm having the tension
pounded from my body.

- Oh.
- I'm having a massage.

Ahh!

It's about Uncle Tim's death.

Well...
Well, just for a minute.

Thank you.

[Clears Throat]

How did Uncle Tim feel about
your going to New York without him?

How do you know about New York?
Nobody's supposed to know about that.

I'm not even announcing it
until tonight's show.

Was he angry, Miss Carstairs?

Did he threaten to follow you,
perhaps reveal your marriage...

in the hopes of embarrassing you
with your new employers?

Or did he suddenly become
more attractive dead than alive?

Stop it!
Stop saying these terrible things.

[Frustrated Sigh]
Now look what you've done.

You're making my face break out.

What's gonna happen to my credibility
if I have a zit?

Chrissie, dumpling, was that the deli?

Ah, Mr. Stewart.

Investigative reporter
and part-time masseur?

Excuse me. I... have to...

fold the towels.

- [Doorbell Ringing]
- That's the deli.

Now you must go because we only
ordered enough food for two.

[Screaming]

- Excuse me.
- Excuse me. Excuse me. Mind your backs.

I went in to wake her from her nap and...

Suffocated by a mudpack?

Hmm.

Huh.

- These must have broken off in the struggle.
- Chrissie's fingernails.

Miss Holt, you shouldn't be here.

Matter of fact, neither should I.

I don't know why Ed insisted I do this.
I could get myself killed.

I have a few questions about Chrissie
that can't wait.

Oh, poor Chrissie.

Just yesterday, so... so vibrant,
so alive, so giving.

How long had you been receiving?

I know what it looked like, but it
was actually a business conference.

Chrissie promised to recommend me at the
network as a special assignment reporter.

We were just discussing what film
she should show them.

You know, to demonstrate
where my talents lie.

Did Uncle Tim know about
this business relationship?

He may have suspected something.

Chrissie was rather careless
about those things.

He must've been very upset, with Chrissie
leaving him here and taking you to New York.

Oh, I see what you're getting at.

That may have been an excellent reason
to dispose of Uncle Tim, but not Chrissie.

She was my ticket out
of this two-bit station.

Unless she changed her mind.
She had a history of loving then leaving.

Just ask Uncle Tim and Ed Greene.

Laura, I am telling you
that somebody's after us.

Somebody's trying to wipe out
the entire Spotlight News team.

Maybe even the people
I'm going to expose today.

Maybe they got wind
of... what I'm trying to do.

Come on, Russell.
We got a deadline. Let's move it.

Here. Hold this a minute.

How much money did he give you,
Officer?

Run!

Give me a hand!

[Yells]

[Panting]
I'm a fraud...

a charlatan, a con man.

I can get behind that.

Amy does all the research,
writes all the questions...

even picks the people
I'm supposed to interview.

I don't even know
who half of them are.

I'm tired.

So tired of always being afraid.

I want to get to where it's safe...

where people don't threaten me
or hit me or try and run over me.

If I only had my gun,
I'd put you out of your misery.

Well, I, uh...
I want that anchor spot.

- What anchor spot?
- The one that's gonna open up as soon as they bounce Elliot.

Elliot Walsh is going to be fired?

This is a young man's game...

and I don't care how many
toupees Elliot wears.

He's not fooling anybody.
He's old.

And what about all the years
he's put in...

strengthening his talents,
honing his skills?

He certainly still
has a great deal to offer.

Maybe he can read them the newspaper
at the old folks' home.

Then would you care
to tell us, Senator...

about your silent partnership
in the Thorezen Construction Company...

and exactly what an illegal campaign
contribution of $10,000 bought you?

[Steele]
Excellent questions, Miss Fogelson.

Nothing compared to the ones
Russell Stewart's going to ask you.

It seems we both have some
minor discrepancies in our past.

- For instance, you didn't exist until six months ago.
- And you don't exist at all.

What's your connection
with Elliot Walsh?

You have no birth certificate,
no tax returns...

no fingerprints on file anywhere.

Two people have been murdered,
Miss Fogelson.

Why are you so consumed
with Remington Steele?

I believe him to be a fraud,
a charlatan, a con man.

I knew a young man once.

Virtually an orphan.

Shunted from relative to relative.

Always underfoot and unwanted.

He'd been given many names
as a child.

Sometimes to suit the vanity
of those who sheltered him.

Others to bilk the government
with one more dependent.

He never really knew who he was
or where he belonged...

so he set out at an early age
to find something he could call his own...

something to...

he could hang onto when the nights
turned bitter and the faces unfriendly.

And, as he'd been taught
by his elders...

he acquired many names
in that pursuit...

and many professions to go with them.

He saw a great deal of the world...

mostly from the underside.

Cheap lofts, drafty street corners.

He's still searching, Miss Fogelson...

merely from a better perch.

If you can find that young man
in any of your notes...

he'd greatly appreciate it.

The day Chrissie was killed...

I heard her arguing with Hoop Tracy.

I don't know what it was about...

but it was threatening and violent.

Thank you, Amy.

Mr. Steele?

That was a very affecting story...

but it doesn't mean the hunt is over.

For either side.

Ah. I warned you.

Nostalgia is very insidious, Miss Holt,
even for one so young.

You're not dancing tonight.

And if I had a brain,
I'd lie and say I was waiting for you.

Actually, I think even the box step
would elude me this evening.

A little game we play.

They don't permit alcohol here...

so from time to time
I smuggle in a bottle.

They bring me a pot of tea,
and we all pretend...

I'm getting smashed
on orange pekoe.

Well, I presume you came
to talk about Chrissie.

So much for an old reporter's instinct.

Any idea who the mercy killer is?

Aren't you afraid you might be next?

In truth, I'd welcome it.

Do you have heroes, Miss Holt?

I'm looking at one.

Heroes are very important.

They give you something
to strive for.

I want to catch the ball
like DiMaggio...

change the country
like Roosevelt...

tell the truth
like Ed Murrow.

- You have.
- And what's it gotten me?

I'm a trained seal
at the Channel 3 zoo...

honking and clapping
for my lousy portion of fish.

I hide under some Sicilian peasant's
crowning glory...

stab myself with corset stays...

and pretend
to give serious consideration...

to whether Princess Di is pregnant again.

While Chrissie Carstairs,
every teenager's midnight fantasy...

whose head has never held
one single, solitary thought...

is summoned to New York
to read the news at 600,000 per.

Do you ever think about growing old,
Miss Holt?

- Not really.
- Take my advice. Don't do it.

It's a very demeaning process.

Now, they say the...
the first thing you lose is your hair.

Not so.

The first thing to go is your courage.

Elliot, tell me about Amy Fogelson.

She's the only decent one down there.

The rest of'em?
Not worth the powder to blow 'em up.

Well, what's her background? Where did
she come from? How did you meet her?

You don't suspect her?

She's the only one at the station
who doesn't have any history.

She's got plenty ofhistory.

Let her alone, huh?

She's had enough trouble
in her young life.

You have a newscast in a few hours.

Don't worry.

I have an infallible method for telling
when I've had too much orange pekoe.

My cheeks get numb.

Besides...

the station is...

a very sobering place.

Like everything else in life,
ace, it's all in the wrist.

Do you have another name?
Something less sporting than "Hoop"?

- Margaret.
- Very pretty.

Yeah, but it didn't pay the bills.

When was the last time you saw
Chrissie Carstairs, Margaret?

Before you and I went to the bar
the other night.

- Are you certain that was the last time?
- Yes, damn it. Why?

Someone heard you and Chrissie
in a violent argument the day she died.

Who? Who heard?

Okay. So we had a little tiff.

She was on her way to New York...

and I asked her if she could put in
a good word for me with Ed.

Maybe it would've meant something,
maybe not. I don't know.

It couldn't have hurt.

Then she got on her high horse...

and she had the nerve to tell me
that I had to earn the job like she did...

on merit.

She earned it flat on her back,
the little twitch.

As I remember,
your parting words to me were...

"Do you think anyone would notice
if I had Chrissie put to sleep?"

So I had a primo reason
to kill the little tramp.

But why in God's name would I want to do
anything to a little goose egg like Uncle Tim?

Excellent point...

provided the same person
killed both of them.

Thanks for the lesson.

I hope you can think on your feet,
Mr. Steele...

'cause these are the questions
Russell's going to ask you tonight.

I think he might be more interested
in the story we stumbled upon.

Oh, yeah?

It concerns someone who planted
incriminating documents...

on a congressman she suspected
of taking kickbacks.

She then ran the story
in the newspaper she worked for.

Although the accusations proved true,
the methods were highly questionable.

And Agnes Fowley was discharged
from the paper.

I'm sure you're painfully familiar
with the details, Miss Fowley.

For six months I've been
looking over my shoulder...

waiting for the other shoe to drop,
and here it is with a great big thud.

I couldn't get a newspaperjob
to save my life...

not even delivering them.

I finally came to see Mr. Walsh.

Although he disapproved of my methods,
he understood my motives.

He was good enough to intercede
with Ed Greene on my behalf.

Someone with such a fervent desire to
punish the guilty, no matter what the cost...

just might see Spotlight News
as the ultimate corruption...

and want to put an end
to it permanently.

I made a mistake. I learned from it.

I'm everything you say I am,
except a murderer.

What are you gonna do with that?

There's no sense in exposing someone
for past indiscretions.

I see your point.

I hope that kid finds himself.

He's never stopped trying.

Well, I wish him luck.

And he you.
[Mouthing Word]

- You know how much I hate this part of the job?
- What?

- Delivering autopsy reports.
- Murphy, we're private detectives.

Autopsy reports are part of our lives.

Chrissie obviously put up
quite a struggle.

There was blood under
all three of her broken fingernails.

Hmm. Apparently she inflicted
a substantial wound on her killer.

Yeah, but where? I don't see anybody
around here with scratches or Band-Aids.

Hmm. Unless it was on a portion
of the anatomy we don't normally see.

I don't think the killer suffocated
Chrissie in the buff.

- Ooh, uh...
- You know, you really are incredible.

- Really?
- Oh, come on, Laura.

Don't tell me he's come up
with the solution again.

Hit the nail right
on the head, Murph.

Care to share your brilliant deduction
with a fellow detective?

Oh, come now, Murphy.

You know these things are always more fun
when there's an audience to guess along.

- [Painful Yell]
- Sorry, sorry.

[Announcer]
And now, from the Channel 3 Studios...

it's Spotlight News with
the new Spotlight News team...

featuring Biff Lagerfeld with sports...

Cousin Claude with the weather...

and investigative reporter
Russell Stewart.

And now with the news...

the Southland's most innovative
news personalities...

Elliot Walsh and Margaret Tracy.

Good evening.

At the top of today's news...

is the release of the coroner's report
on Chrissie Carstairs...

Spotlight News late anchorwoman.

The autopsy revealed blood
under the victim's fingernails...

indicating that Miss Carstairs...

managed to inflict deep lacerations
on her assailant.

The killer was obviously driven...

by a deep-seated need
to express his rage...

at the loss of heroes.

He began by trying to embarrass...

those he felt
were trivializing the news...

but his anger soon pushed him
beyond protest...

and into the dark corner of murder.

I've been doing these newscasts...

for more years than I care to admit.

Tonight will be my final one.

This is a symbol...

of not only what I've become...

but of what the entire
electronic news community...

is in danger of becoming.

- Go to a commercial!
- Let him speak!

Cut that son of a...

We have this magical tool...

called television.

This tool of light and sound.

An instrument that can help create...

the most informed people
in the world...

in the world's
most enlightened republic.

Instead, we give you Spotlight News.

We put on happy faces and happy talk.

We serve up wars and disasters
like mealtime snacks.

We snicker, we prattle, we pander.

Spotlight News
is not a local disgrace.

It's a national affliction!

Ayoung lady
I've become very fond of...

reminded me
that I once said...

"A good reporter gives the facts,
a great reporter understands the meaning. '"

Well, I won't pretend to any greatness...

so I will simply give you the facts.

We, who sit in these well-salaried seats...

are not the news.

Forget our polished smiles,
our scripted banter and our pretty faces.

We are not the news.

The news is unexpected.

It's hard and ugly and,
most of all, it's complex.

Don't settle for us, people.

You're better than that.

You deserve better.

I realize my powers of deduction have
sharpened considerably under your tutelage...

but, um, how exactly
did I solve this one?

When you said that the scratches were
probably on a portion of the killer's anatomy...

that we didn't normally see.

- But we always saw Elliot without his toupee.
- Exactly.

He hated that toupee.

It represented everything
he'd grown to despise about himself.

He only wore it
when he was on the air...

yet the night after Chrissie was killed,
he had it on when I found him here.

Ah, of course.

To hide the evidence that could
link him to the murder...

he was forced to wear it all the time.

I'm sorry.

I know he was an idol.

[Laura]
A fallen idol.

But at the end, he managed
to get back on his feet, hmm?

Yes.

Now, what was that little exchange
between you and Amy all about?

All that stuff about hoping
the kid finds himself?

Oh, a poor waif, wandering in the cold,
cruel world in search of himself.

- Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.
- Anyone I know?

Slightly.

But with any luck,
you'll know him far more intimately.

[Mews]

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