Original subtitles

Hey, Walensky! Walensky!

What's the matter, Chavez? What's the bust this time?

Nothing. Look!

Hey, we better call a priest!

Priest?

For this you call a cop!

How you doing, Lieutenant?

I can't sell a dental appointment for this.

All right, already I'm here. What do you got?

Well, I'm not sure, Lieutenant. On the face of it, it looks

like a typical syndicate scratch.

Hardly worth the paperwork.

Man had a pair of these, he could start a mariachi band, right?

They dug this out of the foundations?

It's down to Class A concrete and bombing job.

Anything else?

Just bones, clothings and shreds.

Okay, Curly,

you said on the face of it, it had the earmarks of the mob here

but only you obviously have reason to suspect otherwise. Give.

Well, clean entry, no exit. The size of the aperture

indicates a small bore weapon,

possibly a .22.

So?

So, it's safe to assume that the shot wasn't fired point blank,

and a .22 is not your typical kill gun.

Execution. Looks more like dumb luck to me.

Any idea when this building went up?

Yeah, in 1957, according to the foreman here.

So we got ourselves an 18-year-old DOA. Let's see if we can narrow it down.

Find out the exact date on which the foundations were poured, working from that start

waiting through the missing persons report, crime files, newspaper morgues, etc.

18 years, Lieutenant, do you know what you're asking?

You know, archeologists are still trying to solve the

mystery of the pyramids. You don't hear them yelling, do you?

Detective?

What the hell's the big mystery about the pyramids?

They don't have Johns.

Yes, Beth?

There's a call and they gave you name.

No, that's all right. I'll take it.

Hello?

Keith.

Monica, how nice to hear from you again.

Have you seen the papers?

Yes, of course.

And you're not concerned?

No, not in the least.

Keith!

Monica, listen to me. I have to go up to Albany for a few days. It's on business.

Now, I want you to get out of the apartment.

Dedicate a tree, go to an auction and have your poodle clipped.

But keep your hours occupied. I'll see you when I come back, all right?

Top of the barn and teamy bios. And what's the good word?

Gomez, you're on.

No, I'm getting out.

Stay, stay.

Yeah.

Emmy reports although the teeth reveal several gold fillings, it'll be

next to impossible to establish identity through existing dental records.

You know, the concrete was poured May 8, 1957, Captain.

The trail that leads to Judge Crater, it ain't a hell of a lot colder than this one.

There is, however, a small bridge and there's a slim chance we might be able to

nail down the manufacturer and through him get a line on the dentist who ordered it.

Dentist?

According to the autopsy findings, the victim was 5'11", weighed in the neighborhood

of 175 pounds and was somewhere between 30, 35 years of age when snuffed.

Rizzo,

I want you to phone Doc Egenweiler,

see if he can squeeze me in this afternoon.

Okay, because I got a tooth that's killing me, isn't it?

Tricuspid.

Yeah, what races is he in? Go ahead.

There's two additional pieces of information.

Our DOA's left leg's been broken and is now

held together by bone grafts and two steel pins.

Emmy states, orthopedic surgery transpired within three years of decedent's demise.

Among the foreign matter, forensic recovery of the scene was a set

of bone buttons, which unlike the fabric they were attached to.

The main intact we're linking into a 10-4.

Any labels from the clothes?

Oh, No, nothing.

All I said was, what's the good word? For this

I get Washington's farewell to the troops.

You know, somewhere in this Michigan metropolis of ours, Gomez,

there's a bed with your name on it. Seek and ye shall find.

You think we're working the kid too hard?

It's obvious you have met this little red-headed

number that he's been running around with lately.

Lieutenant, don't you want to hear what ballistics had to say?

It was a .22, possibly a target pistol, but its slants and

its grooves failed to match up with anything on our files.

How does he do that, Captain?

Don't ask me. I just come here for the coffee.

Bonjour, Madame.

Bonjour, Roger.

A thousand pardons. Monsieur McCallum just telephoned.

He implores your forgiveness, but he has been unavoidably detain...

Detained? For how long?

I don't know.

We traced the bridge work to a finder.

A list of all the customers was obtained when the dentists were contacted.

And who were the smoke sergeants?

I did.

The bone button turns out to be a specialty item, and the

entire consignment was bought by a corn-gold and suns.

A local manufacturer of quality men's suits,

and they carry the line in three stores.

We managed to come up with a fairly comprehensive list of

all the regular customers during the crucial time period.

Damn it, such a list.

Simultaneously, and with the cooperation of the local medical

society, all the available orthopedic surgeons were canvassed...

and pertinent information elicited wherever possible.

Pastrami on rye Russian dressing.

Your party.

You never had us up there, huh?

Well?

Well?

Well?

Well, we checked our information against those men

who were reported missing during calendar year 1957...

who generally match the victim's physical description.

Well, don't stop there. Give me, give me that.

Give you a bupkis. We came up dry. Nothing.

Give me the ME.

Right, Lieutenant.

You know, let me talk to Moskowitz. This is Saperstein.

Since when do we start a catering service for homicide suspects?

Captain, who do you think picked up the tab for all of this?

Oh, it's how he killed his wife.

Well, nobody's perfect, right?

Lieutenant, the ME's on the line.

Moskowitz.

Yeah?

Based on the buttons, let's assume for the sake of

argument that the DOA wasn't a blue-collar worker...

which means that it isn't too likely he

busted that leg in the performance of his job.

How else?

Auto accident?

No, no, that's the only break. There's not another fracture, not even hairline.

Hey, hey, what about sports?

A professional athlete does a vanishing act. You kidding? It's gotta get some press.

Well, amateur sports, then. Skiing, for example.

Now, this is exactly the kind of break that's typical of a...

All right, put together a list of ski resorts.

Upstate New York, Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, like that.

Start contacting doctors in their general vicinities.

What happens if we still come up with zilch?

Then, Fatso, like the ever-popular Lewis and Clark,

you start working your way gradually westward.

Yeah, only Lewis and Clark had an Indian scout.

So did General Custer.

Theo, you've been on this nearly a week, will you?

Yeah, bacon and tomato, white bread, right?

Easy on the mayo. Is that the way you like it?

Eighteen years after the fact, it still can't be done.

And you don't even like tomatoes? They give you hives, didn't you tell me that?

With combined resources of the FBI, Army Intelligence, Interpol...

Unless you're the des Français, it still can't be done.

Here, have a cupcake.

Maybe, for some reason, the deceased was never

reported missing, and thanks for listening.

Ah, Saperstein, 86th and missing men.

All I'm looking for now is a common denominator, any common denominator.

If a name, just one name, separates more than one category, eh?

Monica, remind me to lecture you on the salutory properties of the Shirley Temple.

Bartender, put Mrs. Gibney's tap on my bill.

Can you walk?

A lot you care.

By all means, Monica, let's have a scene, but not here.

In the dining room, where we have a better class of audience.

All right, what was that name again?

Spell it, Saperstein.

B-R-A-D-E-N.

All right, thank you.

Last of these.

Dear chap Atlas, your pal Hercules

is about to lift the world from your sagging shoulders.

Do you see this name?

Gary Braden.

Now I want you to wing it on its way to all those ski resorts we talked about.

That's what you want, huh?

And that's what I want, because you see, this here name was

just laid on me by the indefatigable Saperstein, you know him.

Not only was the gentleman a customer at one of the clothing stores

handling the suits with the distinctive bone buttons,

he was also a patient of one of the dentists on the list.

So, get cracking, Ace.

Let's see if we can't make it three out of three.

Move!

Where's Gomez?

You sent him home, Lieutenant, remember?

That was yesterday.

I told him to get some shut-eye, not knock off for the winner.

How'd you call his pad, Shorty?

Tell him to get it over here.

I'm sending a vice squad after his girlfriend

with orders to book her as a public health hazard.

I love that suit.

Brooks, Givenchy, Saint Laurent.

Yours did have marvelous taste.

And isn't it super that you have the word with all to indulge it?

Keith!

Smile, Monica.

Keith, if you don't talk to me, I think I'm going to scream.

I believe you would, Gary.

The late, unlimited Mr. Braden.

Bones, Monica.

A bag full of disinterred bones.

You swore to me that they would never find him, ever.

Urban renewal, Monica.

There was a time when a building could last

a half a century before anybody tore it down.

Now the foundation hardly has a chance to settle.

Much progress.

And I shouldn't complain, it's made me a millionaire.

A lot of good it's going to do you.

All right, they've uncovered the remains,

but the remains of what, Monica?

Use your head, my love.

After all this time, how can they possibly trace it to us?

They could trace a snowflake and a blizzard first.

Ah, the artichoke.

You're going to love it for us.

Yeah, well, I'll have to love it on the run,

because if I don't get out of here too sweet, I'll blow it up.

What can I tell you, I'll blow another dental apart.

No, the name you gave me, Gary Braden.

It took three days, but Lake Placid finally clinched it for us.

The subject had a skiing accident in the winter of 1955 and broke his left leg.

Stavros, what can I tell you?

You want us with or without the Novotane?

Oh, I've got a feeling I... Oh, excuse me, Captain.

I've got a feeling I don't want it at all.

I got this bell in my head, it won't stop ringing.

Braden, I said.

Now where have I heard that name before?

So I call my good friend Charlie Weinstein on the Metropolitan desk over at the Times.

Now he doesn't even have to check the files.

That's the kind of a memory Charlie has.

Gary Braden, fugitive embezzler,

died May 12th, 1957

in the crash of an airliner bound for Rio.

May 12th?

Well, Lieutenant, that concrete was poured on May the 8th.

Yeah...

You got a hunch I just blew another solid gold filling.

I'm sure you're mistaken, Lieutenant.

I mean, do you have positive proof that the skeletal remains belonged to Gary Braden?

Well, positive, no, but I am a skeptic if there are too many coincidences.

You know, Braden's disappearance,

I've read the newspaper, Count. What's your version?

Well, as you know, I was the president of the

Empire State Mutual Funds and Gary was a controller.

The first inkling we had that something was

amiss was when the airliner went down at sea

and Gary's name appeared upon the passenger list.

Of course, there being no reason why he

should not notify us when he left the country,

we ordered an immediate audit

and discovered nearly $3 million missing.

Now, of course, the company went bankrupt

and many small investors lost their life savings.

It was a very tragic calamity, Lieutenant.

Would you like a highball?

Can I offer you some refreshment?

No, thank you.

Would you happen to recall our friend who had a Braden report of work after May 8th?

Well, I don't remember an exact date, but he

did call one day and he said he had the flu..

I'd be missing a day or two, yes.

You spoke to him personally?

No, he called my secretary.

Oh, well, then I'd like to interview that lady.

Well, that's a trifle impossible.

She's been dead six or seven years.

Well, anyhow, Lieutenant, I'm sure you're mistaken about Braden.

Why would anyone want to kill him and then hide the corpse?

I can come up with something.

Just suppose Braden wasn't an embezzler.

Suppose he discovered the shortage.

Suppose he confronted the perpetrator or

perpetrators and had been wasted for his trouble.

The books then doctored to frame him and the, quote,

guilty flight to Brazil set up.

Really, Lieutenant,

I like a good whodunit as much as the next man.

But why would your hypothetical killer go to such complicated lengths?

To end the search for Braden and for the missing Braden.

It's not bad.

Embezzler flees to Rio,

a city already up to its armpits to find out the truth.

with his friends and fugitives, happily exploring the fact that Brazil

has no extradition treaty with the U.S. of A.

Well, say that your conjecture had some basis in reality.

The man who was supposed to impersonate Braden perished at sea.

Convenient, isn't it?

Lieutenant, I hate to blow a gaping hole in your scenario.

But before boarding the plane,

the man would have had to present Gary's passport.

Now, four days elapsed between the burial of the

corpse and the departure of the Brazilian flight.

Now, tell me this, Lieutenant.

How could someone come up with a passable double on such short notice?

You know something, that's a very, very good question, Mr. McCallum.

And it's, uh,

it's questions like that that keep us awake nights in the cop business.

The collapse of Empire State and mutual funds, it didn't hurt you too bad, did it?

Well, Lieutenant,

ever since infancy,

I've always had the uncanny ability

to always land on my feet.

What can I tell you?

Good job, here.

Hello?

It's Monica? It's Keith.

Yes.

Now, not to worry,

but there's a distinct possibility

you're liable to get a visit from an inquisitive detective,

Lieutenant Kojak.

They think it's Gary, don't they?

They think it might be, but there's no hard proof.

Then, uh, you're not sweating it.

Aye, not in the least.

Beth?

Yes?

Contact the guy, Bridges, with the Trojan security.

Tell him I'd like to see him this afternoon, if possible.

Right away, sir.

A pretzel, yes, sir.

Thank you, sir.

I want a pretzel, not a weapon.

Take another one.

Sorry about that.

No mess.

Yeah, Lieutenant. Yeah, try to stay awake.

This is important. Where's my change, Harry?

Oh, yeah, Lieutenant. I almost forgot.

Sure.

I want you to draw up a list of those male Caucasians fitting or costly,

resembling Gary Braden's general description,

who are reported missing honor immediately 57.

Yeah, I don't get it, Lieutenant.

What are we looking for?

We're looking for a ringer, Gomez.

A dead ringer.

Bridges, I want you to locate a man for me, an Anton Maychak.

Maychak Karl.

Reported missing June 25th,

nearly six weeks after the airline crash.

Yeah, not too promising, huh?

Says here a Wilbur Dietz found the report.

What's a Wilbur Dietz? Maychak's a landlord.

We're trying to locate him now.

All right, do that. I don't also like a photo of Karl Maychak. He was a TV repairman.

Maybe there's an angle there. -Angle? What kind of angle?

How should I know?

I want to be out of here.

Okay, just give me a rest.

How's it too, Lieutenant? Lousy.

Oh, um, uh, how's the broad? Hey, all right.

Not too crazy about the work schedule, though.

Why don't you ship her to the Catskills?

She'd make a terrific boys' camp counselor.

Oh, it's funny, Lieutenant. Funny.

How you doing, Captain?

Leo, surprise, surprise.

I'm catching a lot of flack from upstairs over the amount of time,

money, manpower that you're pouring into this case, the phone bill alone.

Frank, if my scenario's on target, there's a better than even chance that plane crash

was no accident.

And what you're saying? -I'm saying

whoever perpetrated the initial homicide

may be responsible for over 80 additional deaths as well.

There's logic to it, Frank.

The disappearance of that airliner disposed of both the alleged embezzler

and the missing loot.

Now, even if the odds were a thousand to one, would the

commissioner really wish me to drop the investigation?

No.

I think we're gonna have to bring in the Federal Aviation boys into the picture.

I understand it's still just a bundle of hunches.

A push to the wall, I have to admit, we don't have a positive idea on the skeleton.

Circumstantial evidence, sure.

But nothing we go to the grand jury with.

Braden's dentist, deceased.

Son took over the practice, examines the fillings,

claims it looks like Papa's work,

only it's not something he can swear to on the witness stand.

Well, what about the orthopedic surgeon up at Lake Placid?

I thought he retired from practice six years ago. Threw away all his x-rays

when he moved from his office. I'm beautiful.

You'd shown him the photos of the bone graft,

the steel pins.

And he thinks he did the job. Thanks, Frank.

After nearly 20 years,

listening to a man well into his 70s, would a jury be persuaded?

Would you?

Uh, boss, we found Braden's widow.

Damn.

What's the matter? What'd I do now?

Oh, no, not you, dummy. This cockamamie pizza?

Just shank my tooth.

Gibney.

Uh, that's your maiden name?

Yes. I, uh,

reverted back to it because of the scandal.

I see. You've, uh, never remarried then?

No.

No. My husband's life insurance left me well provided for, Lieutenant.

Ah. Had you any forewarning, any inkling of what

Mr.Braden was involved in?

Gary and I were separated at the time.

Under the circumstances, I hardly think he would have confided in me.

And when was the last time you saw him?

Uh, about a month

before the disappearance. I think.

I'm not sure about that. Did you hear from him at all during that period? No.

Only by mail.

My allowance checks would come once a week.

They always arrived on a Monday.

On Monday, huh? I see.

Did you receive a check on Monday,

May 11th, the day before the crash?

No. I remember distinctly because I was so annoyed at the time.

I contemplated calling Gary.

But then I decided to wait a day,

allowing for some mix-up at the post office.

Sure enough, on Tuesday morning,

the check arrived.

I noted the postmark.

It was, uh, Sunday afternoon.

You have a phenomenal memory, Mrs.

Braden.

Not really, Lieutenant.

It's simply there are some things one never forgets.

And now, if, uh, if you'd know further questions, I'm

sure you can appreciate that this subject hardly revives

nostalgic memories.

I don't know. You don't seem to have suffered too much.

My husband had no relatives, Lieutenant.

I was his sole beneficiary.

You won't find me pretending to grieve.

I believe the Lord helps those who help themselves.

Oh, he do indeed.

But had your husband merely vanished,

which would have been the case if those bones were his, you'd have to wait seven

years for him to be declared legally dead.

Seven years, yes.

And not only would you not have collected on the double

indemnity clause. It's possible the insurance

company might have refused to pay anything at all.

Except for Gary Braden's name on that passenger

list, you could be standing behind a rip encounter at the, uh, at the dime store.

Not a dime store, Lieutenant.

Please, give me a little more credit than that.

Oh, I do.

Yeah.

Saperstein, I want you to determine if either Monica Gibney

Braden or her husband ever filed for divorce.

Well, what's that supposed to buy us?

Well, 18 years ago, divorce laws in the state were a lot tougher than they are now.

There are only three primary grounds, insanity,

abandonment, and adultery.

And to prove the lie that you had a name of

correspondent, you get my drift, Saperstein?

I got it now, boss.

Terrific.

Yes, ma'am, can I help you?

Young man, I'm Emily Pembroke.

You'll see,

I wish to see Detective Second Grain, Demosthenes Stavros.

Is he expecting you?

Well, we spoke on the phone.

He offered to come to my apartment, but I told him I'd rather come here.

You see, I've never been inside

a police station before.

And at my age, I doubt I'll get a second chance.

Oh, oh, are you

a gumshoe? -Yes, ma'am.

Oh, good.

But it's about poor Mr. Braden. You see, I was his secretary.

Would you like to step right in here? -Thank you.

Right this way. This way.

Yes. Stavros, old buddy.

This is Miss Emily Pembroke, Mr.

Braden's private secretary.

Oh, Miss Pembroke, please sit down.

That's Miss Pembroke.

I've been liberated.

Now about Mr. Braden.

Of course. You see, personally,

I liked him, though he was by nature rather thin-skinned.

Like everyone else, I was terribly shocked by the embezzlement.

But he had been acting somewhat

peculiarly, you know.

And he'd left that last Thursday immediately after receiving an outside phone call.

What about his marriage?

Oh, Mr. Braden was a very private person.

They'd been separated over a month before I learned of it.

And then only by accident.

You see, I was working late one night catching up on some overdue reports.

And I phoned the Braden home to get some information. That's when his

wife notified me that he no longer lived there.

Do you suppose I might have a cup of coffee?

Rizzo...

What about other women?

If my boss was a secret swinger,

it was the neatest treat since Jekyll and Hyde.

Yeah? -A cup of joe for our guest, sir. How do you take it?

Black.

Okay.

What about when Braden phoned in sick

May the 8th? Did you have occasion to speak to him after that? I was specifically

instructed by Mr. Per Callum not to disturb him. And anyway, it was Friday

and I took it for granted that the weekend would bring

Mr.Braden around.

He never was one to coddle himself.

Thank you.

When Monday came and I still didn't hear from him, I began to worry.

Ignoring Mr. McCallum's orders and was told the phone was off the hook.

Please, you won't say anything.

I wouldn't want to hurt his feelings.

Feelings? Whose feelings?

You see, I'm sure he tries the sweet thing.

But truly, I've been drinking coffee for nearly half a century

and this has got to be absolutely

the vilest concoction I've ever tasted.

Well,

then remain our little secret.

Oh, good.

And now I'll let you in on another secret.

When I learned that the phone was off the hook, I slipped over to Mr.Braden's

on my lunch break and I persuaded

the super to let me in with his passkey,

Mr.Stavros.

The apartment was empty.

Finding Anton Maychak is a stickier number than we figured, Mr. McCallum.

I mean, this dude, wherever he is,

he's got to be a born loser.

No roots, no ambition. Dress from one job to the next.

Now look, hash slinger, pearl diver,

grease monkey, warehouse jock, you name it.

You name it!

It don't make any mind to him.

Well, it does to me.

I don't want any excuses, Burgess.

I want him found. No matter how much money it takes, I want Anton Maychak found.

I've been in touch with both Aero Brasilia

and the Federal Aviation Investigators on a crash.

Here's what they come up with.

While it was never admitted publicly, the

possibility of a bomb was strongly suspected,

but no trace of the wreckage was ever found

so they had no shred of evidence to back it up.

A bomb constructed by anybody.

Well,

to coin a phrase, where there's a will, there's a way.

Three million balloons can generate a lot of willpower.

Today, with all those sophisticated detection devices,

it couldn't be smuggled on board,

but 18 years ago.

How the hell are you going to trace maybe a few sticks of dynamite, wire,

a drugstore alarm clock after 18 years?

Yeah.

Yeah, Gomez, hold it.

Yeah, Gomez.

Yeah, I'm out in Bensonhurst, Lieutenant.

Mount Heave gone home for the elderly.

Oh, didn't think you were that old.

No, I'm not signing myself in.

Nah, a guy just located at Wilma Dietz, the guy who

filed that missing prices report on Carl Maychak.

Hold tight.

Adios, amigo.

Lieutenant, your hunch paid off.

On May 7, 1957,

Mrs. Monica Braden filed for a divorce, naming Rosemary Hawkins as correspondent.

So?

So that's it.

Go find Rosemary Hawkins.

You got it.

Carl Maychak, who could forget him?

Always behind on his rent, he was.

But go holler on such a good hearted schmoogeggie.

He disappeared, you know.

Yes, that's why we are...

One day he came home so happy he was, there was

this big business proposition he'd fallen into,

guaranteed to make him wealthy for life.

Wouldn't be you smoke cigars, officer?

No, but I could offer you one of these.

No, don't offer.

It's not allowed.

But if you want to light one up, maybe

could be I could sneak a little drag from time to time.

What kind of business proposition, Mr. Dietz, did Maychak say?

He was sworn to secrecy.

All I know is he had to leave town for a couple of weeks and he asked

my niece and me would we take care of his little boy.

And since he insisted on paying us $200 for our trouble, how could I refuse?

That was the last we saw of Carl Maychak.

Nothing personal,

but a Corona Corona, that's not.

Well, what happened to the boy?

We carried him as long as we could.

We had three of our own, you know, and times were hard then.

But when

six weeks went by and we didn't get so much as a postal

card, we ripped him off and reported him as missing.

The juvenile authorities took charge of little Anton.

Little. Let's see.

He'd be 24 now.

But where he is, even if he's alive or dead,

it is anyone's guess.

Can you recall anything at all, Mr.

Dietz? Anything before Maychakk's disappearance

that would be significant to us?

No, I'm sorry.

Except Carl was a very happy man.

Such happiness I never saw in all my life.

You might ask little Anton, though, if you can find him.

He saw the man.

What man?

That man who made that sensational business proposition to Anton's daddy.

Anton came home just as the man was leaving.

Commerce, yeah.

A box of cigars for Mr. Dietz.

No, thank you.

Say you do track down Maychakk's kid.

You're pinning a lot of hopes on the recollections

of something glimpsed briefly by a six-year-old boy.

No.

It's not just that frag. It's everything.

Everything we've turned up so far supports our theory.

Gary Braden, Carl Maychak.

Without a scorecard,

their own mama couldn't tell them apart.

Granted, too, that Maychak was last seen

on the very day the Brazilian flight that left LaGuardia.

That still doesn't explain how in a city this size

the perpetrator managed to come up with Braden's twin just when he needed him.

All right, clown this.

Wonder Boy Keaton McCallum on his duff

following the collapse of Empire State mutual funds

makes a meteoric comeback in 1958

thanks to the generous financing Are You Ready?, a newly organized

Delaware corporation whose board of directors consists of four

unidentified John Doe's and guess who's a major stockholder

in McCallum Enterprises.

Braden's widow, Monica Gibney.

It stinks, Frank.

Come on.

Give me that much. Okay, so it's all circumstantial.

But if the grand jury's waiting for a smoking

gun, somebody better clue them that they're 18 years too late.

Rosemary Hawkins, the alleged correspondent of Braden's divorce complaint.

Well, her name's not Rosemary Hawkins anymore.

It's Mrs. Villapiano, and Saperstein found her in Queens.

Well, he's bussing dishes at a midtown cafeteria.

He sacks out at a roach farm on the Bowery.

It's all here in my report, Mr. McCallum. What time does it get off work?

Hmm,

8.30. That's P.M.

All right, Burgess. Thank you.

I'll take it from here.

I was a hat-check girl at a restaurant where Gary used to lunch.

It wasn't anything serious.

I mean, he was unhappy and lonely,

and so was I.

I had just moved here from Nebraska.

I was a divorcee with a small daughter to support.

There'd been an ugly custody battle.

That's why I moved east,

to get away from my ex-husband.

Gary was gentle, understanding,

and good to Sandy.

Did you know he was married, Mrs. Villapiano?

Yes, but I didn't ask any questions, and Gary didn't volunteer any answers.

And one day, out of the blue,

I was named as correspondent in Mrs.

Braden's divorce action.

I called Gary at the office.

He was just served himself.

We met at my apartment to discuss the situation.

Well, I was half out of my mind.

A scandal like that was all the grounds my ex needed to take Sandy from me.

Now, Braden was pretty upset, I suppose. He was furious.

I'd never seen him in such a state.

He swore that I'd never lose Sandy because of him.

He was going to talk to Monica

and force her to withdraw her action.

He went storming out

after telling me not to worry.

I never heard from him again.

Well, you must have tried to contact him.

I had no idea where he lived,

except that he'd moved into a bachelor apartment

somewhere in the east side, and his phone was unlisted.

I called the office the next day,

and they told me he was out sick.

What did you think when you didn't hear from Mr.

Braden? Well, what could I think?

Gary knew where to reach me.

He could have made the effort

if he cared enough, so he didn't.

He just grabbed the money and ran.

Anyway, I still made out.

Gary's death halted the divorce proceedings.

I kept Sandy, and in time I met Mr. Villapiano.

Mrs. Villapiano, it may be that you've well misjudged Braden.

That's quite possible. The reason you never heard

from him is because he died that same night.

Well, how's that possible?

Well, we believe that the man that boarded that plane

the following Tuesday might have been an impostor.

Yeah, it could have been.

You know, Gary had

a sort of commonplace kind of face.

He was often mistaken for somebody else.

Once, it was a few weeks before he disappeared,

Gary was helping me hang new curtains,

when he mentioned that he'd had the oddest experience in his apartment building.

A handyman of some sort. It was an exact double for him.

It could have been a TV repairman.

Yeah, come to think of it, that's exactly what he was.

Would you know if he told anyone else about the incident?

He must have.

A story like that?

Well, Gary, he'd have blabbed it all over the office.

Mm-hmm.

This lady drags a kitten.

Says he's got this gun.

It's the first she knows of it.

Claims he found it while playing in the debris of a construction site.

Uh, 22 target pistol, right?

Yeah, the kids apparently had it for days.

Mama found it while she was cleaning up his room.

I tagged the piece and sent it down to ballistics for comparison

firing to see if it's the same gun that wasted our John Doe.

I doubt if they can fire it, though, because things are all rotten and corroded and all.

Well, why are you at it, Dipples? Did you also

tell them to see if it's possible to determine

who the gun was originally registered to?

Lieutenant,

who was the one that put this investigation on the right track in the first place?

This is my vintage year.

Oh, good she cool.

All right, so what do we got here now?

We know now how the killer managed to come up with a double for Braden, right?

I love these movies.

It's just like the movies, you know?

You play Watson, I'll be Sherlock Holmes.

And we've recovered what we've presumed to be the murder weapon.

Oh, well.

You know something? I really feel like Sherlock Holmes.

You're close, Theo, but still no cigar.

Now, obviously, Watson,

Braden's widow will have to be quizzed again.

He split Rosemary's pair to have a showdown

with his missus, and that was the night of May 7.

Next day,

he's dipped in cement.

It's the hours between the time he set a deal with the Miss Nebraska

and the pouring of the concrete that haven't been accounted for, right?

And I don't look for much in the way of constructive help, Watson, from Monica Gibney

on that subject.

Oh, my dear Watson,

we can only find

that Maychak kid.

Lieutenant, Stavros is on the phone.

He just located Anton Maychak.

I can't understand it.

He came in about 15 minutes ago,

collected his key, and he went upstairs.

Didn't go out again.

Not through the lobby.

At least, that house fed you on a stack of Gideons.

You don't suppose it was some of them that followed you?

Our agents kidnapped him.

Going to torture Anton for information about his old man, huh?

You want to run that by me again?

Oh, he's pappy.

That's all Anton ever talked about.

You couldn't shut him up.

Everybody figured he was just blowing smoke.

Now it kind of looks like maybe he was leveling, huh?

Just what did Maychak say concerning his father?

Boy.

Claimed he was a real spook with a CIA real heavyweight super brain.

Said he'd been sent behind the Iron Curtain when Anton was just a kid.

And the reason he couldn't stay in touch with

Anton was on account it would blow his cover.

But he was going to come back one day soon, Anton said.

And the two of them would be together again just like it used to be.

I thought he was pulling my chain.

Well, don't get too torn up about it.

You know, we'll check the Russia Secret Service.

We'll check the CIA.

We'll throw in the FBI.

Whatever makes you happy.

That window usually left open?

No, no, only in the summertime.

Let me see.

All right, get a forensic team over here right away.

I want them to check the window ledge, that fence down there.

I just want the kids' personal effects inventory.

And I might desk the first thing in the morning.

Yes, sir.

Why are we stopping ever?

Why wasn't Maychak back in his hotel room?

Why go to the trouble of putting the snatch app

and having done so, is our killer going to pack

them all the way to Jersey Pine Barrens? No way.

Not with a friendly neighborhood dumping ground just down the block, eh, Frank?

Then we'd better get some men down here, huh?

Lieutenant? Captain?

Over here.

This time we got here ahead of the cement mixers.

Same, M.O.

But for a different reason.

Anton Maychak murdered.

It could raise a lot of questions.

But Anton Maychak vanished,

just another deadbeat barry skip.

Well, let's face it, gang,

we've been outflanked.

Okay, bye.

Boss,

that's one of the two target pistol we recovered.

It was purchased by Gary Braden in November of 1956.

Burdened by his own piece?

Doesn't fit, Captain.

I mean, not into the scenario we've been running with.

So, we'll rewrite it.

Begin with the proposition that Braden's not the embezzler.

Add to it the fact that he had left Rosemary

Hawkins on the night of May 7th to see his wife.

Now, it's highly unlikely that he was packing the gun

since he'd gone to Rosemary's directly from his office.

Maybe he stopped by his apartment on the way to Monica's.

That's possible, but highly improbable.

He was trying to prevent a scandal at the Star Wars.

So, unless he was walking into a preconceived ambush,

also highly unlikely,

how did the killer come up with the victim's gun?

The killer already had the gun.

Braden moved out on the misses, right?

Probably just packed some clothes, toilet articles, toothbrush, whatever,

and he took off.

All right? The pistol was left behind.

And on the night of May 7th, in the midst of a knockdown argument,

Monica grabbed the gun and shot him.

Then panicked. She phoned Keith McCallum,

spilling her guts to him.

He hurried over, took charge of the situation,

disposing of Gary's corpse,

and instructing the widow, hey, keep cool.

As of this moment, though, in time, there's no embezzlement, right? That came after.

And McCallum knew just how to pull it off.

Thanks to Braden's casual mention of his encounter with Carl Maychak.

First, though, McCallum needed to buy some time so he could set things up, right?

Which he did by explaining Gary's absence

from the office with a story that he'd called in sick.

It was easy enough to lay his hands on Braden's passport,

probably left behind at monikers like the pistol.

And Carl Maychak

once McCallum had tracked him down,

could have been more accommodating.

You know, we'll probably never know what kind of number

he did on Maychak's head, but as a safe guest of this poor slob,

he climbed aboard that plane carrying a bomb in his luggage.

Well, I'll buy that, the whole package.

But the D.A.

won't, neither will the grand jury. What a break.

Anton Maychak,

the only known witness who could link up McCallum with his father.

Might have tied a ribbon on this, but he's dead.

And this is his estate.

Twenty-four fun-filled years on this glorious

planet, and he can pack his entire life in a shoebox.

Some snapshots of his daddy,

couple of Christmas cards, birth certificate.

What do we got here? High school diploma, courtesy of

St.Andrew's orphanage.

Well, five-rated capper key.

KM 61251.

You know those stories the kid laid on Lafferty? We know that jazz

about his daddy being a secret agent is just dogwash.

So I figure it's all from the same weed.

But five-beta capper?

I mean, those things don't come in cereal boxes.

Devoted to his kid?

T-Totler?

No known vices?

All those credentials, and he still couldn't land a decent job.

What are you looking for,

Lutan? That rundown on Karl Maychak.

Here it is.

Dropped out of high school in the 10th grade.

But how'd he get the... KM.

There's another man with the same initials.

Keith McCallum.

And around a thing like this, not even his daddy's,

Anton Maychak had built a dream.

Pursuant to our conversation Friday last, and having consulted

the current price index and allowing for the 6% override.

Yes, Beth.

Lieutenant Kojak to see you, Mr. McCallum.

Send him in.

One day,

for no reason at all,

I discovered it was missing.

For the life of me, I couldn't remember where I dropped it.

I haven't thought about it in years. It's been so long.

That's how it goes sometimes.

McCallum.

Phi Beta Kappa.

Scholastic merit.

Or Phi Vita Kappa.

Phi for fat, Vita

for beautiful, and Kappa for cops.

And between us two,

we've compiled maybe

30 years' experience under force.

You being a prudent man, if I was you,

I wouldn't let those 83 killings go to my head.

This is the big time, baby.

82, Lieutenant.

82, one belongs to Monica.

Credit where credit is due.

And I thought the age of chivalry was dead.

Good job, Royce.

You ready for the biggest laugh of all?

Don't forget to read that punk his rights.