Original subtitles

If I die, this book dies with me. Unless someone picks up the torch.

I've elected you.

Tonight on Murder, She Wrote.

What's the problem? Hannigan dies.

The book dies with him. Not exactly.

Someone else is going to finish it.

I mean, for the first time in my life, I feel like things have been hidden from

me. You're not going to give up on this, are you?

The real killer is getting frightened now. He's afraid you're getting closer

to the truth.

Hello, Jessica.

It's Phyllis Thurlow.

I hope I didn't wake you.

Oh, Phyllis. No, no, no. I was just taking my morning constitutional.

Jessica, I hated making this call.

Daniel's nurse just called me.

She found him in his study slumped over the desk.

He's gone, Jessica.

Oh, Lord.

You were the first one I contacted. I thought you'd want to know.

Oh, of course.

Look, Phyllis, if there's anything that I can do, I think just being here would

be wonderful.

I'll phone you later in the day with the specifics.

They'll be awake, of course.

Oh, of course.

What was it he said?

You can't send an Irishman on to his hereafter without a proper celebration.

I'll be there.

Jessica, have you had a chance to read his research?

Yes, most of it.

Good. We'll talk about it when you get here. See you soon. Right.

Mrs. Fletcher, this is a real honor. Forgive me if I don't get up. Oh,

please, Mr. Hannigan, the honor is mine.

Not many authors have one Pulitzer Prize, let alone two.

Yeah, that and 20 bucks will get you a hamburger at Sardi's.

How about a quick belt to get the dust off your tonsils? Well, my tonsils and I

parted company many years ago.

Mine, on the other hand, have had a whole lifelong relationship with...

Irish whiskey, which I don't intend to terminate now.

Despite what my doctors keep telling me.

Mud in your eye.

And you can spare me the lecture, Phyllis.

I wasn't going to say a thing.

Darling, your expression speaks volumes.

Now to get down to business.

I'm in the midst of writing a murder mystery.

Not one of those frothy little confections you whip up.

But the real thing. A real corpse. Real suspects.

And worst of all, a real miscarriage of justice.

For the past 16 years, a man has been in prison for a crime he did not commit.

Right, Phyllis?

My brother Martin, Mrs. Fletcher. They said he killed his wife. He didn't, of

course. Of course he didn't. The whole thing was a sham from start to finish.

Engineered by the lady's father, a mean-spirited egomaniac named Richard

Thompson Grant.

I know that name.

You should.

His flunkies get it planted in the press often enough.

Sixteen years ago, Lydia Grant Thurlow was murdered in her home, severely

beaten, then shoved into a glass brick front. The only suspect was her husband,

Martin, a womanizing fortune hunter who apparently married her only for her

money. Martin was observed coming home around 9 p.m., obviously drunk.

Shortly after he went inside, a terrible row could be heard by one of the

neighbors. She positively identified the voices as Martin and Lydia. That was

around 9.15.

After several minutes of silence, the neighbors saw a light flicker and go out

in the living room, followed immediately by the sound of breaking glass.

Ten minutes later, the police arrived.

When they looked in the window, they saw Lydia Thurlow lying motionless on the

floor at the base of the shattered break front. There was blood everywhere.

Every door and window was locked.

There was no one in the house except the victim, her husband, whom they found

passed out in his bedroom, and their three-year-old son.

The police jumped to an obvious conclusion.

I can see why.

Obvious, but erroneous.

The next morning, Martin Thurlow was given a lie detector test.

Despite his hangover and lack of sleep, he passed the test.

Soon after, the results were conveniently lost.

And a second test was never administered.

Are you sure about that? Of course I'm sure.

These are my notes.

Interviews, correspondence, police reports.

It's all here, the whole dirty, ugly story.

Look, Jessica, I want you to take these home. Read them thoroughly.

And see if you don't come up with the same conclusion I do.

Lydia Thurlow wasn't killed by her husband.

She was murdered by her brother Eric.

Richard Thompson Grant's only son.

And the old man has spent the past 16 years covering it up.

Look, Mr. Hannigan... We're all friends now, Jessica.

You can call me Dan.

Dan.

I'm really flattered by all of this.

If you need someone to double-check your conclusions, well, I... Don't be dense,

Jessica. I don't need an editor.

I need someone to write the book for me.

For you? Oh, don't be silly.

My morbid physicians insist I won't last another month, and for once they may be

right. If I die, this book dies with me.

Unless someone picks up the torch.

I've elected you.

But I can't. Why not?

You know how to read, don't you? You know how to write.

Or maybe you'd like to see Martin Thurlow spend another 16 years in jail

for a crime he didn't commit.

Jonathan Barish.

May I help you?

Yes. My name is Jessica Fletcher, and I was asked to be here. I was a friend of

Mr. Hannigan's. Oh, yes.

The Blue Salon.

But I'm afraid Mr. Hannigan is not yet ready for viewing.

The hours are two to five and seven to ten. I see. Well, Jessica, I'm afraid

you've gotten lost. It's all right, Mr. Barish. Oh, as you wish, Miss Thurlow.

But about that music, it's not what I ordered.

I'm afraid that Irish melodies are not in keeping with the Barish and Sons

tradition. In this case, make an exception.

Mr. Hannigan left instructions and they were very specific.

Yes, I'm sure. Whatever we're paying you for the music, double it.

But I want to hear Danny Boy.

And if you can't manage it, I'll find a funeral parlor that can.

Of course.

He's in here.

They did a terrific job.

Doesn't he look peaceful?

As if he'd never been sick.

The telegrams are starting to pour in from everywhere.

Senators, congressmen, everyone whose lives he touched.

Oh, the White House.

Oh, yes, that was the first one to arrive.

I didn't even know they were acquainted.

You know, after I got home last week, I reread the Vietnam indictment.

Oh, and I was reminded what a powerful writer he was in those days.

Never lost it.

Right to the end.

When is the service?

Oh, Friday morning at 10 at St. Anthony's Cathedral.

The Cardinal himself is going to officiate.

You're going to miss him, aren't you?

Yes.

I'm going to miss him a lot.

Miss Thurlow, allow me to convey my deepest sympathies.

Thank you. The world has lost a gifted journalist.

Bradley Foulkes, Mrs. Fletcher. I'm delighted to meet you.

Thank you.

It's a shame you had to return to our city so soon again and under these

painful circumstances.

Mr. Folks is our deputy commissioner of police. He makes it his business to know

everyone else's business.

Oh, I see. He was also one of the investigating officers in Lydia's murder

16 years ago.

A tragic case, Mrs. Fletcher. A drunken argument, a momentary loss of control,

and a family's destroyed.

A woman dead, a man imprisoned, a young boy raised without parents.

Yes, I've been reading your newspapers.

It was on the front page of your local papers for weeks.

Only because of the personalities involved. Actually, the case itself was

very simple.

Opened and shut.

Yes, well, I'm not quite sure that I agree with you about that.

But you must be hungry after your flight, Mrs. Fletcher. Would you allow

me to buy you lunch?

I'm sure, Mrs. Fletcher. Oh, I'd be delighted, Commissioner.

You must have a hundred things to do, and I think it would be very helpful for

the Commissioner and I to have a little chat.

Of course.

Then I'll see you later.

Oh, absolutely. We've got lots to talk about.

Hannigan was overseas when the murder happened, so he wasn't really aware of

the case until just a few months ago when Phyllis Thurlow approached him

about writing the book.

Yes, she's a very determined woman. Oh, I'll give her that. All these years and

she's never given up.

She's wrong, of course, but you have to admire her loyalty to her brother.

Why are you so sure that she's wrong?

Counting the initial investigations and the followers and the press scrutiny,

that case took up more...

time and attention than any case I ever worked on. What about Eric Grant, the

victim's brother?

What about him? Well, I read the reports, Commissioner.

Earlier on the day of the murder, he came to see his sister to borrow money.

They had a terrible fight, and he threatened her.

Now, Daniel believed that he came back that evening to steal the money and that

Lydia caught him and that Eric killed her.

Well, of course, I've heard that theory.

Back then, Eric Grant was a junkie.

These days the family prefers to think of him as an ex-flower child, but he was

a hardcore user.

Believe me, Mrs. Fletcher, nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to

hang the murder on that slime.

I have no sympathy for addicts and never have.

But Eric Grant's alibi as the time of the murder is rock solid.

Daniel Hannigan didn't agree.

Well, Hannigan was a brilliant writer in his time, but this last year he's been a

very sick man.

And perhaps his illness...

clouded his judgment?

On the other hand, perhaps he was one of the few people who refused to be

intimidated by those people who would prefer to see the story forgotten.

You must mean Richard Thompson Grant.

Why don't you ask him? Here he is now.

My, what a coincidence.

Hello, Commissioner.

I saw you lunching with this charming-looking lady, and I couldn't

resist the urge to barge in.

How do you do, Mr. Grant?

Won't you join us?

I was hoping to have a chance to chat with you, and now is as good a time as

any. You're most gracious, Mrs. Fletcher. Menu, sir? No, thank you. I'm

not eating.

It's a shame your visit is under these circumstances.

You know, I always admired Dan Hannigan's style and wit, even if I

didn't always share his point of view.

Yes, he certainly had a flair for exposing the dark side of the

establishment. It made for very popular reading, even when he played carelessly

with his facts.

Yes, it's astounding how many lawsuits he won.

You know, I don't think he lost a single one.

True, but only his death prevented a blot on that record. I assure you, Mrs.

Fletcher, had he published his book accusing my son of murder and me of

obstructing justice, Mr. Hannigan would have lost everything he owned, including

the proverbial shirt off his back.

My goodness, that sounds uncomfortably like a threat.

I'm sure that Mr. Grant didn't mean it that way. Oh, but of course I did.

I just want this little lady to know exactly what she's letting herself in

for, if she decides to proceed.

Well, I haven't made up my mind yet, but I can assure you that this conversation

will have a direct bearing on my decision.

Well, forgive the intrusion.

You've, um, you've only heard half the story, Mrs. Fletcher.

If you'd like to hear my half, I'm at your disposal any time, any place.

The commissioner knows how to reach me.

Enjoy your lunch.

I'm sorry.

I imagine when Richard Thompson Grant makes a request, it's hard to refuse.

For a man in my position, the word is impossible.

Thank you.

Dad, you didn't have to come all the way out here.

No bother.

This is Madeline.

What's your last name, honey?

Oh, it's Smythe, with a long I.

Actually, it's Schmidt, but I had to change for professional reasons.

Delighted to meet you, my dear.

Oh, the same for me, sir.

I guess everybody knows who you are.

I'm so sorry you had to make the trip from Atlantic City for nothing, but, um,

unfortunately, Eric's going to be involved in some family business for the

next few days.

Arnold will fly you right back.

Now, wait a minute.

Oh, and Arnold, when you land, uh, give Miss Smythe a few hundred dollars for

cab fare back to her hotel.

Yes, sir.

Eric! Uh, I'll call you later, honey.

But you were going to show me the Liberty Bell.

I said later.

Huh.

Don't they have laws about things like that?

It was so nice of you to meet me personally, Dad.

You usually just send the car.

I'm sorry to spoil your week, son, but we have a problem, and I thought you

might want to be involved, since you're the center of it.

Hannigan's dead.

That's no news that's been all over the television. So what's the problem?

Hannigan dies.

The book dies with him. Not exactly.

Someone else is going to finish it. Who?

A tenacious lady with a sharp mind. I don't think we can ignore her.

Crazy fool. Hannigan had it all wrong.

Sixteen years have passed, and Martin continues to protest his innocence even

more vehemently now than the day he entered prison.

Dad, I did not kill my sister.

I've always believed that, son.

I've had to.

The man never drank scotch whiskey in his life. He considered it unpatriotic,

as well as being a mortal sin. Oh, you're wrong, Dolan. No, no, you're

wrong. Spring of 71, this little bar in Saigon. By 10 o'clock, they ran out of

the Irish. Danny's getting very loud and abusive. The bartender gets up, goes out

back, and fills up an empty bottle of Jameson's with Cutty Sark. Well, I don't

believe it. Well, believe it. His taste buds were so numb, you could have fed

him lighter for it.

You could have.

Why are you dredging all this up again? You know why. Because your father did

not kill your mother. Well, because he said so?

Because he has some half-baked idea that it was my Uncle Eric?

Come on, that's crazy, and you know it. No.

Good evening, Mr. Barish. Oh, Mrs. Fletcher.

Mr. Hannigan certainly had a lot of friends, didn't he?

Loud friends.

Is she here?

Miss Thurlow?

Yes, I believe.

She's over there talking to her nephew.

Why don't you just spend a few minutes with him?

Just one visit.

He's a saint.

I know.

He's got you fooled, Phyllis. Not me.

He's right where he belongs.

Now that Hannigan's dead, he's gonna stay there.

So that's Stephen.

He seemed very preoccupied. His grandfather's got him totally

brainwashed. There's no reasoning with him.

How was your lunch with Bradley folks?

Informative. Look, Phyllis, you and I have got to talk.

What's the matter, Jessica?

This is the matter.

This was in this morning's paper.

Yes, I saw it. Yes, you not only saw it, you instigated it.

I've already spoken to the reporter.

Is there any harm anything to keep the case in front of the public? Isn't that

the whole idea?

Phyllis, I'm sorry, but you put me in a terrible position.

and down the mountainside.

I am in a terrible quandary, and I just don't know what to do about it. What is

it? Well, I've been over and over Daniel's notes, and each time I do, it

comes out the same way. Now, Daniel was right about one thing.

The case against your brother was almost too pat, too easy.

But there was also not enough hard evidence to prove his innocence.

Eric Grant killed Lydia.

Did he?

I'm not so sure. But you've read the notes.

Yes, I've looked at all the material, I've read all the notes, but they

weren't compiled by the same man who won two Pulitzer Prizes.

I mean, over and over, he keeps making assumptions that aren't backed up by

hard facts.

Look, Phyllis, I'm sorry, but what I've read was careless, sloppy journalism.

I'm not sure that I can continue.

But you gave your word.

No, no, no, that's not true. I promised to read the notes, and I've read them.

So now what?

You're just going to walk away and let my brother rot in prison? And what about

Dan? If you walk away now, it'll be a terrible blow to his memory and his

reputation. Oh, Jessica.

He was so sure.

There's something in there that you're missing.

Don't quit now. Please.

Mrs. Fletcher?

Oh, Mr. Thurlow.

Sorry to interrupt.

Oh, that's quite all right. My eyes were getting out.

Look, I'm not exactly sure how to say this.

Well, why don't you just say it?

I don't think there's a lot to be gained by you continuing with this book.

Oh, why do you feel that?

Now, I know what Mr. Hannigan thought.

Phyllis told me.

But my Uncle Eric did not kill my mother.

Was he in the house that night?

The night my mother died?

No. Oh, then you do remember.

You were so very young, I wasn't sure.

Well, how could I remember? I mean, it was, what, three?

Three and a half?

There was a terrible fight that night. So loud, the neighbors summoned the

police. I must have slept through it. I mean, I really don't recall a thing that

happened. Stephen, I know that you are very loyal to your uncle.

But you do know that in those days, he had a terrible drug dependency.

Is it possible that he might have been capable of striking your mother,

blacking out, and totally removing it from his memory?

I wouldn't know. I'm not a psychiatrist. I'm a college student.

Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I came here to ask you to leave it alone.

I'm sorry I've wasted your time and mine.

Excuse me.

Oh, Commissioner?

Why, Mrs. Fletcher, you're looking chipper this morning. Well, I don't feel

it. I have just spent hours poring over the newspaper accounts of the Thurlow

murder. You know, I've got more questions now than I had when I started.

Well, in that case, I think I'd better buy you a cup of coffee. Great.

Thank you.

You're not going to give up on this, are you? Oh, don't be so sure.

Okay, what is it you want to know I haven't already told you? Who is J.R.? J

.R.? Yes, a couple of the early newspaper reports.

Named a man named J.R., a drug pusher, who could have been Eric Grant's

connection, the man that he owed money to.

That's a new one on me.

But you must remember, Mrs. Fletcher, I didn't take over the case until about a

week after it happened.

The homicide officer in charge had been transferred to South Philadelphia, and I

inherited the case. Oh, yes, Lieutenant Kravitz. Yes, his name was on the files.

Maybe, maybe I ought to talk to him.

He retired about eight years ago. I have no idea where he is today.

But as for this J.R., well, you know newspapers, anything to sell copies,

and a drug scandal in a wealthy family is always good reading.

But the plain truth is, as I told you, the case against Martin Thurlow was dead

-bang. Yes, but still.

Mrs. Fletcher, you're beginning to sound like one of those reporters.

This case was not about Eric Grant and his drug problem.

Believe me, if it was, I'd have tossed that creep and his sleaze suppliers in a

dungeon and thrown away the key.

Yes, Patch.

Oh, all right.

Bring it in.

What is it?

An anonymous note having to do with Daniel Hannigan's death.

As soon as I saw what it was about, I tried to handle it as little as

possible.

Hannigan poisoned to shut him up.

Check digitalis levels.

It was murder.

Yes, I see.

I appreciate it.

Thanks for calling, Commissioner.

That doesn't sound like good news.

It's not.

The police received an anonymous letter claiming that Hannigan was poisoned.

They're rechecking the autopsy data.

First Hannigan tries to reopen the case.

Then that Fletcher woman has to show up to take his place.

And now this.

Damn it, it just isn't fair.

To whom, Grandfather?

To any of us.

It'll be dredged up again, Stephen.

All of it.

And you can imagine the implication the press will draw.

Someone killed Hannigan to stop his investigation.

Well, and who would do a thing like that?

Not I, I assure you.

Well, what about Uncle Eric?

Surely you don't believe that.

Do you want to know the truth?

I don't know what to believe.

I mean, for the first time in my life, I feel like things have been hidden from

me, and I don't like it. I mean, who is J.R.? Who?

J.R.

It's my uncle's drug connection from back in the good old days.

When he has talked about it from time to time, even though he doesn't seem to

remember much about him, I thought maybe you do.

I mean, since you seem to be so well acquainted with every other aspect of

this case.

I never met this JR.

He was some street hoodlum. Eric owed him money.

Since he was obviously afraid to come to me for it, he went to your mother.

It happened to be the day she died, but there's no connection between the two

events. No?

Well, where's J.R. now?

He disappeared.

Yes, Stephen, believe it or not, I did have that angle checked out.

After your mother died, I sent Eric to an overseas hospital for rehabilitation.

When he returned a year later, J.R. was a distant memory.

Your uncle never heard from him again.

Why do I still think you're not telling me everything?

I've told you the truth as I know it.

You can believe it or not as you wish.

Excuse me, I'm looking for... Mrs. Fletcher.

Lieutenant Travis.

That was eight years ago. Just playing birds fine now.

My wife called, said you'd be dropping by.

Well, I hate to disturb you at work.

Oh, work. I just do this to pass the time. My retirement almost killed me.

My wife said you wanted to talk to me about the Thurlow case.

Well, if it's not imposing.

Or in another position. I love to talk about the old days.

Hey, let me buy you a cup of coffee, huh?

Lou, take over, buddy.

I was only on the case a couple of days, then I got transferred to South Philly.

Brad folks volunteered to take over for me.

Brad's a smart guy. I always knew he'd go big in the department.

Well, he seems very astute politically.

He knows how to play the game.

It's just something I never learned.

Is that why you transferred?

You trying to say that somebody wanted me off the case?

Well, why?

Brad and I looked at it the same way. The husband did it. Couldn't have been

anybody else.

Are you so sure about that?

You won't believe that brother angle, too, huh?

Look, ma'am, if that lady was killed by a junkie, even a rich one like Eric

Grant, bread would have been all over him like wallpaper.

He hated druggies.

The dealer uses all the same to him.

His son was a cop, narc, undercover. Started right after he got out of the

academy. And then a couple years later, Eddie, that was his name.

Eddie.

He got killed in a raid.

So believe me, if drugs were involved in the death of Lydia Thurlow, Brad would

never have gone after the husband.

Not even if he were pressured?

By who?

Richard Thompson Grant, the old man?

Brad's father was a policeman, and his father before that is a family

tradition.

Now, Brad may know who to suck up to, but when it comes to crunch time...

He's still a cop.

You can count on it.

Well, I'm sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but I don't seem to have been much help to

you.

Are you all right, Mrs. Fletcher? Yes, yes, I think so.

Yes.

This is Commissioner Folks.

What?

Wait. Give me the address.

Okay. Okay, I'll be there in 20 minutes.

Brad, what is it?

It's that writer woman.

Can you believe it?

Somebody actually took a shot at her.

Is she all right?

I think so.

But, uh...

Well, apologize for me, will you, darling? Of course.

That was a pretty close call.

Was it?

Oh, hey, excuse me.

How you doing? Long time, Bert.

How is she?

Oh, solid to rock.

Whose idea was this?

She came looking for me.

Why don't you tell her?

What, about the old murder?

What's to tell?

Third will kill his wife. What do you have, a beer, a coffee? No, no, no,

thank you. Okay.

I understand I dragged you away from a dinner party. Sorry.

No harm done to either of us, thank you.

You were a very lucky lady tonight, Mrs. Fletcher.

Oh, I'm not so sure about that, Commissioner.

Excuse me?

Somebody did shoot at you.

No, somebody shot at a plate glass window.

More for effect than anything else, I think.

Commissioner, look.

Whoever fired those shots was standing across the street in that alley. Now,

how far do you think that is?

Hmm, 60 feet at the most.

Now, I was standing right by the taxi.

And yet, at least two shots were 15 to 20 feet away from me. I mean, a blind

man could have gotten closer than that. No, I think that those shots were a

warning. To frighten you off?

I don't think so.

Did you get a new coroner's report on the digitalis levels in Mr. Hannigan's

body? Still waiting.

Well, when you do get it, I think that the results will be the same.

If you're on to something, Mrs. Fletcher, I sure would love to hear it.

Well, I could be wrong, but I don't think so.

I've got a pretty good idea who's responsible for that note and also for

these shots tonight.

Why, Jessica, Commissioner, what is it? Is something wrong?

Phyllis, we need to talk to you. Of course.

You just woke me from a sound sleep. But if it's important, come in. Thanks.

Has something happened?

Someone tried to kill Mrs. Fletcher tonight.

Oh, no.

Two shots were fired from an alley. They both missed.

You see, don't you? The real killer is getting frightened now. He's afraid

you're getting closer to the truth. This proves what I've been saying all the...

Phyllis, why would you say if I told you that we have a description of the car

that was driven by the person who fired the shots, and the car was a late model

red compact station wagon like the one that you drive?

Mine? Couldn't be. I told you I was asleep.

I went to bed around nine.

I checked the hood of your car.

The engine's still hot.

I wasn't trying to hurt you, Jessica. I swear it.

I know that.

I was afraid you were going to give up on the case. I desperately needed you to

believe that Lydia's killer was still alive after all these years.

Is that why you sent the anonymous note claiming that Dan Hannigan was murdered?

I wanted to buy time.

Anything to keep the case alive.

Now I've ruined everything and no one will believe me.

Jessica, I'm sorry.

I was frightened and I did a very stupid thing, but I swear to you, I only did it

to save my brother.

He's innocent, and now because of me, he'll spend the rest of his life in

jail.

Well, old buddy, I guess this is so long for a while.

I don't know where you're going to be ending up.

But either way, here's a little something for the trip.

And don't you forget to put in a good word for me.

Miss Thurlow.

I just had a call from Mrs. Fletcher. She apologizes, but something important

came up, as she said to proceed without her.

I did not kill my sister, Mrs. Fletcher.

I was nowhere near the house when my brother-in-law pushed her into that

glass break front.

Yes, but why are you so sure that she was pushed?

Maybe she tripped and fell. Maybe it was an accident.

May I remind you, my daughter had also been beaten.

Martin Thurlow admits to having struck her a couple of times when he got home,

but not to murder.

No, of course not. Mrs. Fletcher, there was no one else in the house that night.

Well, that's not exactly true. There was one other person. Your grandson,

Stephen. That's idiotic.

What are you saying, that a three-year-old boy committed murder?

Oh, of course not. I'm looking for a scenario to fit the facts.

Now...

Just before the neighbors heard the crash of broken glass, now, one of them

saw a light that flickered on and then went off.

Now, supposing Stephen came downstairs, having heard the fight between his

parents. He sees his mother bleeding and hurt. He goes to her.

Somehow, he stumbles against the lamp. His mother lunges to keep it from

hitting the floor. She slips and stumbles into the brake front.

Far-fetched nonsense.

My dear lady, this is not one of your books. Well, far-fetched or not, it must

have occurred to you, Mr. Grant. Otherwise, why did you squelch the

results of Martin Thurlow's lie detector test?

You're mistaken. I did not interfere with the police investigation.

Oh, I wish I could believe that. It's true.

But assuming, even for a moment, that your theory is right, do you honestly

believe I would allow a man, even Martin Thurlow, to spend 16 years in jail for a

death I knew was an accident?

You might, to protect your only grandson from the trauma and publicity that was

bound to follow.

You don't know me very well.

I'm sorry, Mr. Grant, but there has to be another explanation for your

daughter's death.

Even if not your grandson, it keeps coming back to the drug dealer.

Now, who was J.R.? Tell me about him.

There is nothing to tell. He was my connection. He sold me drugs. I owed him

money.

He threatened to kill me if I didn't pay.

On the morning of her death, I begged my sister to lend me the $3,000 that I

owed.

When I told J.R. that Lydia refused to help, he threatened me. That's when I

went into hiding with my girlfriend.

J.R., what does that stand for?

I don't know.

I only knew him by his initials. But how old was he? I mean, what did he look

like? What kind of a car did he drive? Surely you must remember something.

Yes, and I told it all to the police.

Please, tell me.

Mrs. Fletcher, it's been 16 years.

Yes, Martin Thurlow is well aware of that.

He was young, younger than I was.

Maybe 25, long dark hair, scruffy beard.

Tall, medium build.

He drove a blue Porsche.

I never knew where he lived, who his friends were. He was just there.

Well, did he have any scars or tattoos?

Some kind of significant characteristic?

You're grasping at straws. There was one thing.

I may have told the police about it. I'm not sure.

Well, what was it?

Around his neck, he wore a bullet on a chain.

He said a cop took a shot at him in Chicago, missed his heart by this much.

He kept it as a good luck charm.

Chicago? Are you sure?

During the convention riots in 68.

Now we're getting somewhere.

I mean, there have to be records in the hospital from the police reports for a

young man with the initials J.R. from the Philadelphia area.

Thank you both very much. I'll see myself out.

Yes?

Mrs. Spokes, I'm sorry to disturb you. Is your husband home? I'm Jessica

Fletcher. Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, please come in. Thank you.

He's not here.

Have you tried his office?

Oh, yes, I have, but he isn't there either.

Well, I really don't have any idea where he went.

I slept late this morning.

Bradley's such an early riser that usually he tries not to wake me.

Oh, this must be your son.

Eddie. Yes, that was taken the day that he graduated from the academy.

We lost him, you know, many years ago.

He died in the line of duty.

Yes, so I was told.

I'm sorry.

There are several places that Brad might be.

Would you excuse me while I call?

I won't be but a minute. Of course. Thank you.

I thought he might be playing golf, but Jim Daniels, that's his golfing friend,

said that Brad had to go to a funeral this morning.

What's the matter, Mrs. Fletcher? Is there something wrong?

Wrong? Oh, no, no. I was just looking at this photo of your son.

That looks like a bullet on a chain around his neck.

Yes.

He was almost killed in a hunting accident when he was 12.

And he always kept that around his neck for good luck.

He was a good-looking boy, don't you think?

Yes.

He was an only child, you know.

Brad and I would have welcomed more, but the good Lord didn't see it that way.

We were both so proud of him.

Mrs. Fulks, you told me that he died many years ago. When exactly was that?

Why, it'll be exactly 15 years next March.

Ah. I assume that your son had died before.

Before what?

Excuse me, Mrs. Foulkes. I think I know where I can find your husband. Forgive

me for troubling you. Oh, it was no trouble.

Please, come by any time.

Thank you.

Jessica, where are you? Oh, Phyllis, I'm so sorry. I meant to be here.

Where's Commissioner Foulkes?

He's over there. Is something wrong? No, I'll explain later.

Commissioner. Mrs. Fletcher, we were wondering what had happened to you.

Well, I talked to Eric Grant. Then I went to your house. I wanted to see you.

Your wife is a very gracious lady. You must love her very much.

She's all I have left.

Yes.

We looked at pictures of your son.

I hadn't realized that he was a junior.

Your wife referred to him as Eddie.

But I imagine quite a number of his friends probably called him J.R.

He's buried over there.

What did you say to my wife?

Nothing.

I asked her about the bullet that your son wore around his neck.

Eric remembered that the J.R., that he knew his drug connection, also wore a

bullet around his neck.

That's a good luck charm.

For five years, my boy was a good cop.

But you can't ask anybody to go through what he did without cracking.

Day after day, week after week, living at the edge.

Part of the whole dirty scene.

Trying to keep his sanity and do his job.

They expected too much of him.

It was all so easy.

The money, the cars, the women, all there for the taking. And in the end, he

just couldn't fight it.

So he became part of the mess that he was trying to clean up.

When Eric wouldn't pay, Eddie went to see Lydia Thurlow.

In fact, they were arguing about the money when her husband came home.

Eddie hid in the next room.

Sherlock was drunk and nasty.

I guess Lydia must have figured if she'd given Eddie away, her husband would only

take it out on her brother, so she didn't say anything.

Oh.

Eddie came to see me next day, scared to death.

Swore it had all been an accident.

Well, by that time, I knew he'd gone bad. But if Dorothy had learned the

truth, it would have killed him.

I had a choice to make, and I made it.

When Bert Kravitz got transferred, I volunteered to take over the case.

And it wasn't hard to hang a conviction on Thurlow.

He was my son.

What was I supposed to do?

What are you going to do? Tell the truth. To who?

Who's going to believe you?

Maybe Richard Thompson Grant.

Maybe no one. I can't help that.

Mrs. Fletcher, I can't let you do this to my wife. Not after all this time.

A man has been unjustly imprisoned for 16 years because of you.

Doesn't that count for anything?

Not enough.

Mrs. Fletcher, something wrong.

I was just leaving.

Can I give you a ride?

Yes, yes.

I'd like that.

Thank you, Mr. Dolan.

Could you possibly drop me at police headquarters?

Sure.