Original subtitles

- The Marx brothers. - They're hip.

Three points for the brothers Marx,

including Zeppo and Gummo, of course.

- Of course. - Lenny Bruce.

Definitely hip, too hip for his own good, in fact.

- Sigmund Freud! - Used to be hip.

Not lately, though.

Penis envy, pay her no mind.

What the hell are you talking about?

Jewish and hip, we're coming up with the definitive list here.

- It's a short one. - Not so short as you think, Michael.

Thirty and counting, okay?

- Whoa. - Right this way.

- Who's up? - Ballard and Gharty.

In my office right now.

Oh, get your tongue off the floor, Stu.

- Who the hell is she? - Brigid O'Shaughnessy.

She shot Miles Archer with the gun she got from Thursby.

She shot Miles Archer, so we're sending her over.

Miles Archer? Whose case is that?

Surrounded by oxen.

Ballard, Gharty, this is Darlene Everett and her attorney.

- Wife of Mr. L. P. Everett. - The writer.

The spy thriller guy.

Death in Kiev, Mutiny on the Nimitz.

Oh, there's a movie, right?

There were four, actually.

Everything the guy writes is a movie, he's a bestseller.

- Remember The Potemkin Factor? - Not off hand.

Mr. Everett is missing.

Not missing, dead.

- Dead? - He was murdered.

Okay, he's been murdered, and the body is where, exactly?

Well, that's what I need you for.

Homicide.

- Woody Allen. - He's Jewish? Who knew?

You sleep with your mother, it's a Greek tragedy,

you sleep with your girlfriend's daughter, you're off my list.

Sammy Davis Jr.

- No way, that doesn't count. - Why not?

Well, Sammy converted, so he's an accessory after the fact.

That's right, he's Black, so he's hip by definition.

So you're saying all Black people are hip?

Name one who ain't.

George Washington Carver.

Please, how many things can a white man do with a peanut?

Shelled or unshelled?

I got one.

Meldrick Lewis.

- He's Black. - Yeah.

- But not particularly hip. - Yep.

What you're talking about, ?

Point taken, I guess Sammy Davis goes back on the list.

No, no, no, hold on, let's just stop the game right here.

I could be accused of a lot of things,

but falling off the cutting edge is not one of them.

- Terri, am I down or am I down? - What?

Am I hip? Tell these fools.

- Uh, you have your moments. - Moments?

I don't know, maybe you try too hard.

I'm not playing anymore.

L. P. Everett has been missing for five days.

He was killed by his literary agent,

Jake Benedek, by name.

Mrs. Everett, as police officers,

we typically find that foul play is

the least probable explanation when adult males disappear.

Excuse me, my husband did not run off,

if that's what you're trying to suggest.

He was killed by his agent.

You sure of this?

The last time I spoke with my husband,

he was at his office in Canton.

He was killed there.

You're saying

that you know that your husband has been murdered,

where he was killed, and who killed him.

That's right.

How can you possibly know that?

My husband told me.

- Hey, guys. - Hey.

Ernestine Meade, 88 years,

no overt trauma, found in the front room, still in her nightgown.

- 88 years old? - Right.

And no signs of trauma?

Why did you even call us out here?

What you have here is a natural death.

Definitely not, it's a burglary.

Given the nature of this ongoing dispute

over literary rights and representation,

it is now my belief that my agent,

Jake Benedek, plans to murder me.

In the event that I disappear,

I would suggest that investigators

devote their attention to Mr. Benedek.

This one should write itself.

Or call it

The 20% Solution.

You know, this might be a publicity stunt.

Something to get headlines, and sell more books.

We have real murders to work.

I think we should dump this on Missing Persons.

No, it's too high profile for that.

Once the press gets on it, we're going to need to say we did everything possible.

So, do everything possible.

Yep.

Ten to one, this hack is at a Vegas craps table

with a bimbo on each arm.

One thing that definitely does not make any sense here,

what in God's name is she doing with the likes of Everett?

Well, a rumbled, middle-aged white man with reading glasses

who spends his entire life in front of a typewriter.

Gee, Stu, who can resist that?

Oh, "rumbled." "Rumbled," huh?

So now you're talking trash on my dry cleaner.

So, who made the call?

Anonymous mail dialed 911.

Came over the radio as a medic run,

so the paramedics got here first.

- Who was here when they pulled up? - Just her.

And where did the call come from?

Communication says it came from the phone number listed to this address.

Okay, well, I want to get the phone receiver dusted, please.

Well, it's a burglary. I'll grant you that much.

An attempt at burglary, anyway.

If I'm half the constabulary giant I pretend to be...

And you're always that.

...I can readily conclude that our suspect entered

through the first-floor window...

Carefully stacking his booty by the front door.

...whereupon the lady of the house awakens,

stumbles out of the bedroom, and surprises Archer.

Maybe he hit her with this vase.

And our boy, moral cripple that he is,

manages enough humanity to dial the ambulance before departing.

I think he must have panicked, because he left everything he came for right here.

Well, who can blame him?

He comes for a nice, quiet house-breaking,

and he served a full plate of chilled granny surprise.

Now I got ambos and detectives and the crime scene,

and everybody's undies are in a bunch.

You should have stayed in bed, Ernestine.

At 88 years old, whatever goes bump in the night is none of your business.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait a minute, you're blaming her?

Hey, she stays under the covers,

there's a couple of burglary detectives here with a ruined afternoon.

Am I right, or am I right?

You had a few days off coming up, didn't you?

Three, had me a weekend rental

and our lovely bartendress, Billie Lou.

One bedroom, beachfront condo.

Ernestine, sweetie, how could you do this to me?

He said what?

Mr. Everett made a taped declaration

suggesting that if he ever disappeared or was found murdered,

you would be the person responsible.

He hasn't been seen or heard from in five days.

- Did you check his office? - Yes, no sign of foul play.

And his Jaguar isn't parked in the garage.

Now, his wife tells us

that his business relationship with you had soured in recent months.

Three days in Mombasa.

He's in Mombasa?

I don't know where the hell he is.

Although I could offer some good guesses.

That there is the first draft of his next novel

mailed to me a week ago

with a note from your missing person.

A note?

Yep, he said he was exhausted, but glad to have finished,

and that he was going to get away for a while.

Do you have this note?

No, it was on one of those little yellow Post-its.

I tossed it.

When a man decides to go on vacation, he usually takes his wife,

or if he doesn't, he at least tells her where he's headed.

Unless he's going with a mistress.

Everett has a mistress?

Mm, a French one,

Claudette Pinchot.

He's had her in a suite at the Colonnade for a year now.

You didn't hear that from me.

All right, all right, but this videotape,

the one that gets sent to Mrs. Everett

about the same time you get this manuscript,

why all this talk about you killing him?

Do you ever read a book by L.P. Everett?

All of them.

All of them? Geez. I'm his agent.

I've only flipped pages in the first two.

Death in Kiev was brilliant.

Brilliant, huh?

This is a guy from Baltimore

who sells used appliances for most of his adult life.

Then one day, he writes a novel about spies

killing each other on a nuclear aircraft carrier,

and "bada-boom,"

600,000 copies

fly off the shelves.

For ten years, this nebbish

from Patapsco Avenue has been living

in his weird little macho universe

where everyone kills everyone else

in very clever ways for very clever reasons.

He imagines this stuff.

Yet Mrs. Everett insists that he was gonna fire you,

that he was talking to other agents.

And he told me that he was planning on leaving her, all right?

Darlene is-- She's a lovely girl,

but she doesn't know money, and she doesn't know publishing.

She's an actress, that's what she knows.

Actress?

Yeah, you didn't recognize her?

He met her on the set of Kiev. She played the Russian hooker.

The one that gets decapitated in the missile silo?

Yeah, that's her.

Jeez, I didn't recognize her.

She looks different somehow.

Oh, the hair's the same.

Maybe it's the breast reduction that threw you.

Reduction?

So do we or do we not have

a cause of death on Ernestine Mead?

- Hard to say. - What does that mean?

Well, what do you want it to be?

Do I have a choice? Okay, I'll take a natural one.

- Slow down, Munch. -"Slow down"?

What are you talking about? Billie Lou, the condo?

Is there any indication that Ernestine was murdered?

There's no physical evidence of it, no contusions, no abrasions.

She died of heart failure.

Straight-up angina with an embolism chaser.

- So as far as that goes-- - Check, please, gentlemen.

- I'm out of here. - Munch, stay.

So what's the twist?

It's a burglary, right?

She gets out of bed in the early hours of the morning,

she finds a burglar ransacking the place.

If that's the theory, I'd say he scared her to death.

He scared her to death?

She died as a result of human intervention.

The fact that a criminal terrified her.

Well, that doesn't make it a murder.

Look, if you strike someone with your fist,

and he falls down, and he dies for whatever reason,

it's what, it's homicide,

it may be involuntary manslaughter in court,

but manner of death is homicide.

Yeah, but you said there's no indication anybody hit the old lady.

True, but who knows what the burglar did

when she confronted him?

I mean, he-- He might have screamed at her.

He might have threatened her. These things are assaultive.

Do you know what I mean?

So you're saying that depending on what happened in that room,

that this one, it could go either way.

If you catch the burglar,

I would like to ask him some questions.

And depending on his answers, I'll give you a ruling, until then I'm pending it.

You're standing between me and true happiness.

I hope you know that.

What's that on your tie? There's pesto sauce?

You wish.

If you see her, give a call.

According to the garage attendant,

Claudette Pinchot's Mercedes has been gone longer than a week.

Hmm, and Omar here hasn't seen her either.

The building manager says that she has to have her mail held.

I think we have our answer.

You know, that little weasel and his spice aren't off for a week,

and we are out here spinning our wheels.

Well, let's get back to the rotation, catch a real murder.

Does the wife know about the mistress?

No, not from us.

I think you should give this to Missing Persons,

not that the guy even wants to be found.

Well, she thinks he's still dead,

she might go to the press thinking we're doing nothing.

You saying we got to tell her?

It covers our ass, doesn't it?

Oh, boy.

What's the matter, Stu?

Oh, he's a guy, I'm a guy.

Speaking from a male perspective,

it doesn't seem like the right moment to me.

All right, I'll give her the dish, then.

How are you gonna break it to her?

I'm gonna ring the doorbell, tell the silicone queen I got good news and bad news.

- What's the good news? - He ain't dead.

- Bad news? - He ain't dead.

Once she hears the whole story, there's no difference.

Ballard, Gharty. You guys find a missing writer?

Not yet.

I guess he really knows how to write mysteries, huh?

Oh, you're a laugh riot, Falsone.

What'd I do?

I'm getting the feeling that Ballard doesn't like me very much.

You really don't get it, do you?

- What? - She likes you.

Ballard likes you a lot.

- You think so? - Yes.

Hey, what else did she say about me?

You say you have an elderly person who's lost consciousness?

An old lady, yeah, she fell, and she's looking really pale.

Okay, do you know this lady?

Do you know her medical situation?

No, we just met.

And who are you, sir?

It doesn't matter who I am, just an ambulance, as soon as you can.

Okay, a medic unit is responding.

You'll be there to guide the paramedics, correct?

- No, I gotta go. - Sir? Sir?

Housebreaker with a heart of gold.

Play it again, I could use a good cry.

You don't seem surprised

that your husband was having an affair.

It was an open marriage.

Open?

Yes, my husband was a very sexual being.

I understood that.

So then, you also were able to see other people.

Well, now, why would I want to do that?

No, L. P. was good enough for me.

Look, if my husband wanted to leave town with another woman,

he wouldn't have to hide the fact.

I'm telling you he's been murdered.

Excuse me, is there a phone?

It's right through that door in the library.

Mrs. Everett, everything points to the fact

that your husband and his, uh, friend

are out of town together.

Right.

Yet, he hasn't used any of his credit cards,

cashed a check, or made any airline reservations.

That's unusual. True.

Jake Benedek was taking

20% of everything my husband made.

Now, do you know what a literary agent usually takes?

10, maybe 15%.

I am telling you, Jake knew that L. P. wanted out.

But, Mrs. Everett--

That was a state trooper at BWI.

Your husband's Jaguar has been located in long-term parking.

He's dead. I know.

- We'll get back to you. - Okay.

We'll see ourselves out.

By the way,

I thought you were great in A Death in Kiev.

I mean, until you had lost your head.

You think? Gee, I don't know.

My character wasn't very developed.

Oh, no,

I thought you were very developed in that.

Thank you.

Found it locked.

Theft device activated.

No sign of any stripped ignition or any other damage.

Let me guess, parked for a week.

Yep.

Want to tow it back to headquarters to be processed by the crime lab?

What for? This ain't a crime.

Just leave it.

He and his French cutie are gonna need it

when they fly back from wherever.

Come on.

I don't know, Tim,

it doesn't sound like there was any intent to assault or scare Ernestine.

I mean, it sounds like she just keeled over.

Look, John, what about the vase, huh? He might have tossed it at her.

He might have threatened her with it.

It could have fallen when she collapsed.

We're only gonna find that out when we find the burglar,

and we get him in for an interview.

More power to you, you find him, you talk to him.

Are you bailing on me?

You know, this isn't turning out to be much of a murder,

and bucks and barmaids have been an obsession of mine since late adolescence.

You know, I guess,

I'm really not used to having a partner

who's so quick to dump cases.

Oh, I know, I know.

You and Frank would investigate all the existential implications

in your dogged pursuit of justice.

Me, I'll be back Tuesday.

- Hey, big dog. - Hey.

Munch.

Gee, this is not a murder.

Our little scribe is on the wing with his little girlfriend.

Come in my office.

Oh, lady, tell me you're not who I think you are.

Uh-oh.

Everett's mistress says that she's been up at Deep Creek Lake

for the last eight days waiting for Everett to arrive.

- He never does. - Do you believe her? - It's a credible story.

He tells her he's got a couple more days of work, she should go ahead without him.

She does, and he never shows, she gets back to Baltimore,

finds out that he's not to be found,

and, like any responsible mistress,

reports him disperu to the police.

All right, correct me if I'm wrong,

we now have a famous writer generally missing for nine days,

no crime scene, no physical evidence, no nothing.

You two don't exactly have this case surrounded, do you?

Stivers, Falsone, Sheppard, Giardello!

We just backed into a red ball.

Find me a living writer or a dead one.

I don't care which.

All right, potential suspects include

Everett's literary agent, his wife,

maybe a mistress or two, who knows.

Falsone, get a consent search for both residences.

- Wife first, mistress second. - Two searches coming up.

Recheck the airlines for reservations,

and ring up State Department of Customs.

You want to know for sure our writer hasn't used a passport

to leave the country, I got it.

Rene, get in touch with the New York publisher.

Everett just finished the manuscript,

I want to make sure everything's in order.

And, Terri, you need to get Everett's car to headquarters,

and have it processed for evidence.

- And where's it at? - BWI.

State police found it in the long-term, we screwed up by letting it sit.

Let's get over to Everett's office.

It's the last place he was known to be alive.

Well, we checked it twice already.

Yeah, but now we have a writer that's really missing.

So let's try it with fresh eyes.

Never mind a body, we don't even have a crime scene.

If I was writing The 20% Solution,

what would I put in this room?

There is nothing out of the ordinary in this office.

There is no blood, no bullet holes, no sign of a struggle.

- No chair. - What?

We're standing around looking for stuff that shouldn't be here.

We're not seeing what should be here, and ain't.

Oh, be damned, there's no chair.

How's he gonna sit here, and work if he doesn't have a chair?

Ah!

Missing writer. Missing writer's chair.

Now, why the hell would a leather desk chair be missing?

There's blood on it, you clean it.

Leather cleans up easy.

A bullet hole, a bullet hole.

If you put a couple of slugs

in that chair,

then there's no repairing it.

Bingo!

Semi-auto.

He stood right here, and he walked the shots up.

"Boom, boom, boom, boom."

This is the scene, they killed him here at his own desk.

Yeah, but who's "they"?

Whoever shot Everett went to a lot of trouble to try and hide it.

Yeah, we found a hole in the wall where a bullet lodged.

Yeah, the shooter dug out the slug,

then used the sword there to cover the damage.

Two holes in the desk were filled.

He couldn't fix a hole on a leather chair, so that's gone.

- Any, uh, trace of blood? - No.

No, but we-- we checked the cleaning closet on this one and guess what?

Whoever killed him mopped up the blood,

then took the tainted mop and pail out with the body.

All right, check with the building's management,

get a full background check on all employees.

Also, find out if they hired any new cleaning crews.

And you two pick up Jake Benedek,

Everett's wife, Everett's mistress,

anyone that you think that might be a suspect.

Now? It's 2:00 in the morning, Gee.

I don't give a damn if it's 2:00 in the morning!

We've got a victim that's been dead more than a week

while some son of a bitch plays us for a fool.

Now, I'm not a fool. Are you a fool, Detective?

Can you say rhetorical?

Everett's editor in New York says he received a draft manuscript,

Baltimore postmark, a week ago.

That's consistent with what Benedek says.

True, but the editor says

that Everett expressed unhappiness with Benedek,

told the publishing house not to deal with him on the new book.

Well, that matches the wife's story.

Also, the editor mentions some ex-CIA mercenary type, named Grenville Rawlins,

- used to be friends with Everett. - Ex-CIA?

Supposedly the real deal. El Salvador, Beirut, Angola.

Rawlins complained to the editor

that he gave Everett an unpublished manuscript,

only to have a lot of it show up in Everett's books.

- So did he threaten to sue? - More than that.

Says he used phrases like "terminate" and "extreme prejudice."

- Where does this Everett live? - Essex.

I'll take the ride. You got an address?

She was a little upset about being bothered so late,

but now we're getting along just great, ain't we?

You're very short, no?

Uh, après vous, mademoiselle.

Uh, Mrs. Everett?

Meet Ms. Pinchot.

Ms. Pinchot, Mrs. Everett.

Oh, there's the little tramp.

- Tu es cochonne. - Yeah?

You're a flat-chested little trollop.

- Salope! - Tu parles, saloperie!

Ladies, ladies, ladies.

- Connard! - Lighten up, will ya? Okay?

- Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! - Ow!

So much for the open marriage.

My God.

Is there anyone on this case who doesn't have a motive?

Mr. Benedek?

You ever hear of an ex-CIA operative named Grenville Rawlins?

Yeah, yeah, he, uh, used to pal around with L. P.

They had a falling out.

He claims that his own experiences

were used by Everett in his books.

I said they had a falling out.

Have you had any contact with Rawlins?

Oh, I, uh, I haven't seen him in a couple of years.

Once he started talking about suing my client,

I didn't want anything to do with him.

Was Rawlins violent?

Why don't you just ask me

if I think he would kill Everett?

Would he?

With real spies, I figure they kill you

and they never talk about it.

But after listening to Rawlins tell his bar stories,

I would have to say he spent 20 years at Langley

stapling office reports.

He didn't scare anyone.

You move, you die.

You want to have a seat for me right here, sir?

Hey, kids. That there's Mr. Johnson.

He's the maintenance supervisor of the office building where Everett's office was.

And he tells me the maintenance man

assigned to the floor where Everett was presumably killed,

he quit four days ago.

Can we ID this cleaning man?

He's the name of Norman Stokes on his employment forms,

but I already ran that through the computer.

There's nothing on that DOB, nothing, not even the driver ID.

Fake name. Sounds like our shooter.

The description is white male, shock of snow-white hair,

medium build, 45, 50 years of age.

Why don't you call in a sketch artist, see how good his memory is?

I'm going to call in a sketch artist and see how good his memory is.

Yeah. Good idea.

My knees are killing me.

Try doing six weeks

in a North Vietnamese tiger cage.

It'll redefine your entire concept of pain.

Look, I'm with the Baltimore field office.

Call there, speak to the agent in charge.

I remember there used to be a special agent, Giardello.

Worked counterintelligence out of Washington.

Did some of the undercover for the Ames case.

- You got me. - That was you?

That was a hell of a case.

I got to, uh, I got to stretch my legs out here.

Why didn't you say you were counter-spy?

You here on company business?

I'm now the office's liaison

to the Baltimore City Police Department.

I'm working on a murder investigation.

- Who got killed? - Maybe no one.

Maybe L. P. Everett.

Let's hope that it's not no one.

You don't seem real broken up about it.

I gave Everett a manuscript

that would have made John le Carré stand up and salute.

Everett steals it, turns it into literary tripe.

He's worse than a thief. He's a hack.

Would you mind, uh, taking a ride in the city with me?

- It'd help us clear some things up. - No problem.

I'm always at the service of this government.

Something we don't quite understand, Mr. Benedek.

And what would that be?

The manuscript of Three Days in Mombasa

you showed me in your office was marked first draft.

So?

So this is a copy of the same work

sent to us by Everett's New York publishing house.

Yeah. And this one is marked final draft.

If you're still so buddy-buddy with your client,

why don't you have an up-to-date copy of his latest work?

Maybe he made a mistake.

So, what you're saying is that you didn't kill him,

but if you had killed, uh,

excuse me, terminated him, you're such a professional--

If it was my work,

you wouldn't find enough of the body to fill a table spoon.

Mr. Rawlins, I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Al Giardello. Mr. Rawlins.

Pleasure.

Excuse me.

So, how's he feeling today?

Has pre-trial detention made him any more talkative?

He claims to have been tortured by the best of sadists

and dragged through the worst of jails.

He says we don't even make the top 100.

Mr. Rawlins,

my office has every intent of prosecuting you for the murder of L. P. Everett,

and I have to tell you

the disappearance of a best-selling author

attracts publicity.

I'm gonna be extremely aggressive on this case.

Good for you.

You had an established motive for killing Everett,

that of revenge for an act of plagiarism.

You created an opportunity by gaining employment under a false name

with the cleaning crew in Everett's office.

And in a manner that would do your former colleagues

in the intelligence community proud,

you managed to dispose of the victim completely.

This is a copy of an invoice

for the building maintenance company for which you worked.

It shows the delivery of eight 55-gallon barrels of used chemical solvents

to Atco Recovery,

a hazardous waste disposal firm in Curtis Bay.

Now, according to Atco,

seven of those barrels weighed between 80 and 120 pounds.

The eighth, strangely enough, weighed nearly 220.

Figure 150 for Everett himself?

Another 70 or 80 for some assorted items,

like, say, pieces of a leather chair.

Mop, pail,

maybe even a murder weapon.

So we're right up there at 220, aren't we?

For the sake of my own curiosity,

what happened to the barrels you're telling me about?

You know what happened.

They were neutralized in an acid tank.

They don't exist anymore.

Well, no body, no murder, that's what I figured.

I'll be home after a preliminary appearance.

Listen, you son of a bitch, with or without a body,

I will find a way to prove and prosecute this murder.

So your only chance to limit your exposure is to give up Jake Benedek.

Benedek, you say? Now, that's a familiar name, but I'm not sure.

We subpoenaed bank statements for Benedek's accounts.

They show cash withdrawals totaling $80,000

in the two months prior to Everett's disappearance.

Your statements show cash deposits

in $9,000 increments in order to avoid IRS reporting guidelines

of about the same amount.

However did you get so much cash, Mr. Rawlins?

Generous relatives, bingo winnings.

I remember I sold a pretty good-sized stamp collection.

We know Benedek's behind this, all right?

We know he was gonna lose Everett's new book to another literary agent.

We know he knew enough about the plagiarism to get you to do his dirty work.

You give us Benedek, and I can offer a second degree.

- And 30 in. - And you know what?

In a high-profile killing like this, you can't expect any better.

I used to be in a very competitive business. Did I mention that?

Sometimes your friends turned out to be your enemies.

Sometimes they stayed your friends.

But the worst thing, the most contemptible thing

was when an enemy pretended to be a friend.

You know what I'm saying?

Try to turn you, try to get you to betray your own people,

get you to betray your own country.

And they would try. Yes, they would.

If a man can't stand by the people he sides with,

where the hell can he expect to stand?

L. P. Everett never understood that part of it.

Now, you say he's dead. Maybe so.

I don't know anything about it.

Oh! How was your weekend?

Homeric, how was yours?

Mine? I don't know. Conscientious?

Morally and ethically responsible?

You caught the burglar?

After much hard effort?

No. Why don't you admit it?

You've been sitting here for two days reading the sports section.

Well, that is a damnable lie.

Which brings up another point.

Before you got shot, you never read the sports section.

You mostly read the news columns.

It's true, very true.

- So out with it. - Out with what?

Whatever half-baked, on-the-mountaintop aphorism

now leads you to contemplate the fine print of an NFL line score.

You see, the Buddha taught impermanence.

All that exists is the present moment.

And what is athletic endeavor,

save for a series of perfectly timed moments

executed for their own behalf?

Huh?

It's there...

and it's gone.

Timmy, do you even believe half of what comes out of your mouth?

Look, the line gives the Ravens next week and seven points.

That's easy money in my book.

Well, keep the moment pure, weedhopper.

Even Buddha wouldn't take the points on Jacksonville.

You're Bayliss, right?

You ask questions like that, you're going to get into

like a half-hour metaphysical discussion.

Hey, I'm Bayliss.

Baumgold, I'm working felony follow-up

- at Northeastern. - All right, yeah.

- I got something for you. - What's that?

You handled an attempted burglary up in Lauraville on Friday?

- One where an old lady got killed. - What about it?

We had a print hit on an apartment burglary last night.

Once we jacked the mope up, he goes for 32 house break-ins,

including that one with the old lady.

And he put himself in for that?

Well, he tells us about it and asked if the woman's okay.

- Did you tell him that it was a murder? - I didn't tell him nothing.

He's still hoping grandma's alive and kicking.

Well, let's call it a homicide. I could use the clearance.

Oh, I see. So now you want it to be a murder.

He's in our lockup. You want to talk to him or what?

- So you're copping the 32 break-ins. - Why the hell not?

Man, they offered me seven years no matter how many cases I copped to.

I look at it like this.

You get to clear as many cases as you can,

and it don't cost me a thing, right?

Right. That's how it works.

You burglary detectives, too, right?

- You work with that gentleman I talked to. - Yeah, we do.

I was asking him about a job I did

up off of Harford Road somewhere.

Hamilton Avenue, I think.

This lady up there, she passed out, man.

It scared me to death. I just want to know she okay.

- She scared you to death, huh? - Yeah.

I'm creeping around, quiet as can be,

when all of a sudden she's standing there in a nightgown

with her hair up in rollers and everything,

and then she just stroked out, man, right then and there.

- Yeah, what'd you do then? - I dialed 911.

Couldn't wait around, though, huh?

Hell no, man. What was I gonna tell 'em when it got there?

I spent what time I could trying to make her comfortable.

Took the vase off the table, put some cool wool on her face.

Besides that, she seemed to be breathing and all when I left.

It's a terrible thing when you're all alone and old like that.

If something happens to you, huh, who you gonna rely on?

- Something like a burglary? - Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know.

I'm a wrongdoing guy with this type of stuff,

but even I draw the line for myself, man.

For instance, I'll make a silverware set disappear in a heartbeat,

but people is people, right?

You know what I'm saying?

People is all that matter in this world.

That old lady, is she okay? Is she gonna be all right?

She's fine.

Man, I'm glad to hear that.

Not a murder.

Well, it's real natural.

What the hell? Let's pick a jury and see what happens.

It doesn't sound like you, Ed.

You're usually the voice of caution.

Yeah, well, what can I tell you? That nut Rawlins pisses me off.

Without a body, we are at a real disadvantage here.

We can't even say with absolute certainty that a crime occurred.

Maybe we should wait. See what evidence comes in.

You always say that you only can try a case once.

They're not gonna find a body, Al. That body's gone.

But you think we could win?

We got a circumstantial web connecting Benedek to Rawlins

and Rawlins to the disappearance of L. P. Everett.

A very thin circumstantial web.

Yeah, but we can win?

Hell no, we can't win.

But you all did your job.

I'll do mine.

You don't have to be best friends,

but we cannot go into the courtroom

with the two of you at each other's throats, either.

It would be too easy for the defense

to put either of you on the stand and suggest,

for example, that maybe Claudette here killed Mr. Everett

because he wouldn't leave his wife.

Or that maybe you, Darlene, killed your husband

because he was sleeping around.

If you both loved him,

then you both will do what's necessary

to make sure that his killers are punished.

- So we need to know. - Did you love him?

- Okay. - Uh, whoa, whoa, whoa.

One last thing I need to know.

Forgive me, ladies, but you're both very, very attractive.

I-- I mean, you're both knockouts.

Until he got killed, anyway, L. P. Everett,

he was a-- he was odds-on favorite

for luckiest man in Baltimore, if you catch my drift.

For God's sakes.

What I'm trying to say is, uh, you're--

I-- I've been a cop for some time

and a man for longer, and, um, I-- I--

To me, the way the world usually works

is twos end up with twos

and fours with fours and tens with tens.

I'm sorry. Am I missing something here?

What is he babbling about?

Well, see, you're-- you're tens.

And Everett, I mean,

you know, I mean, he was probably a great guy and all, but, um--

You see my point, right?

- No? - No.

Excuse me, please.

- Thank you. - Yeah.

Well, never mind.

That's my last witness.

The State rests, Your Honor.

- Very well. Mr. Russom? - Oh, Your Honor.

The defense chooses to present no evidence

and asks to proceed with closing arguments.

- Very well. - Thank you, sir.

Ladies and gentlemen...

there has been no murder.

There has been no crime at all.

And, in precisely ten seconds,

the noted Baltimore writer L. P. Everett

will walk through those courtroom doors

and wave to us.

Well, I guess I'm wrong.

But the point, ladies and gentlemen,

the point is that we all turned to look,

to see if Everett would show up.

And that, you see, is reasonable doubt.

Which is why you have absolutely no choice...

but to acquit.

- I didn't know you smoked. - It's my first.

It's a good dog, huh?

Yeah, as dogs go. Thanks.

Yeah, don't mention it.

People like to say I'm cheap, but, you know,

I pick up a check every now and again.

What are you doing Saturday?

Why are you asking?

I thought we might go out.

- Go out? - Yeah. Still my treat.

Like dinner and dancing?

How about bowling?

- Bowling. - Duckpin.

- Duckpin bowling. - It's big in Baltimore, very big.

- Eh. - Oh, Eddie.

Jury's back.

12 minutes?

That took longer than I thought it would.

Will the defendants please rise?

Madam Forelady, how say you to the charge of first-degree murder?

We find the defendants guilty.

Hey, how-- Why, after my brilliant summation?

How could you possibly convict?

Well, actually, 11 of us were all set to acquit,

but then juror six spoke up.

What did juror six say?

Tell these guys what you told the rest of us, honey.

I just told them when everyone else was looking at the door,

I looked over at Mr. Benedek and Mr. Rawlins.

- So? - I'm afraid they weren't looking at the door.

They were looking straight ahead.

They knew he wasn't coming.

Hey!

Don't look at me.

Yeah. Hey, who's rumpled now?