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.

Well, 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 gonna give up on this, are you?

The real killer's getting frightened now.

He's afraid you're getting closer to the truth.

Hello?

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.

There'll be a wake, 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.

Oh, 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 gonna 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 breakfront.

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 9:00 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 neighbor 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 breakfront.

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.

- Well, 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 old 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 that

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 was afraid you'd gotten lost.

It's all right, Mr. Barish. As you wish, Ms. 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, but--

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.

Yes.

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.

He never lost it, right to the end.

When is the service?

Friday morning at ten at St. Anthony's cathedral.

The cardinal himself is going to officiate.

Mm.

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 Folkes, 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. Folkes 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.

Open and shut.

Yes, well, I'm not quite sure

that I agree with you about that.

Well, 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 100 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 follow-ups 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.

Now, 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

at the time of the murder was 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.

Mm, 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.

Well, 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...

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 Smithe-- with a long "I".

Actually, it's Schmidt,

but I had it changed for professional reasons.

Delighted to meet you, my dear.

Well, 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 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,

give Miss Smithe a few hundred dollars

for cab fare back to her hotel.

- Yes, sir. - Eric.

I'll call you later, honey.

But you were going to show me the Liberty Bell.

I said later.

Don't they have laws about things like that?

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

You usually just send a 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.

It'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.

That 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.

Scotch?

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 ten 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 you. - Well, believe it.

His taste buds were so numb,

you could've fed him lighter fluid.

Ah, you could've!

Why are you dredging all this up again?

You know why.

Because your father did not kill your mother.

- Because he said so? - Shh!

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? - Ms. Thurlow?

Yes, I believe--

Ah, 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.

Yeah, 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 Folkes?

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.

I don't see any harm.

Anything to keep the case in front of the public.

Isn't that the whole idea?

Phyllis, I'm sorry,

but you've put me in a terrible position.

♪ Oh, Danny boy ♪

♪ the pipes ♪

♪ the pipes are calling ♪

♪ from glen to glen ♪

♪ and down the mountainside ♪

♪ the summer's gone ♪

♪ and all the roses falling ♪

♪ it's you, it's you ♪

♪ must go and I must bide ♪

Phyllis, 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,

and 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.

- I'm sorry to interrupt. - Oh, that's quite all right.

My eyes are giving 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, I was,

what, three, three and a half?

There was a terrible fight that night,

so loud, the neighbors summoned the police.

I must've 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 mean, 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, Ms. Fletcher.

You're looking chipper this morning.

Well, I don't feel it.

I have just spent hours pouring over the

newspaper accounts of the Thurlow murder.

Now, I've got more questions now than I had when I started.

Well, in that case,

I think I better buy you a cup of coffee, come on.

Great. Thank you.

You're not gonna 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.

Huh. 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 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, Madge?

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."

Oh!

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.

I mean, he has talked about him 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've never met this J.R.,

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.

That 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-- - Mrs. Fletcher?

Lieutenant Kravitz?

That was eight years ago. Just plain Bert's fine now.

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

Well, I hate to disturb you at work.

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.

Oh, no, no, no imposition.

Hell, I love to talk about the old days.

Here, 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 Folkes 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.

Oh, he knows how to play the game...

which is something I never learned.

Is that why you transferred?

Are 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 want to play that brother angle, too, huh?

Look, ma'am,

if that lady was killed by a junkie,

even a rich one like Eric Grant,

Brad would've been all over him like wallpaper.

He hated druggies--

Dealers, users, 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 of 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. It was a family tradition.

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 Folkes.

What?

Wait, uh, give me the address.

Okay. Okay.

I'll be there in, uh, 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 you'll apologize for me, won't you, darling?

Of course.

That was a pretty close call.

- Was it? - Oh, hey, excuse me.

- Brad, how you doing? - Long time, Bert.

How is she?

Oh, she's solid as a rock.

Whose idea was this?

She came looking for me.

- What did you tell her? - What, about the old murder?

What's to tell? Thurlow killed his wife.

What'll you have, a beer? 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.

Well, 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?

Mm, 60 feet at the most.

Now, I was standing right by the taxi,

and yet at least two shots were

fifteen 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 onto 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.

Thank you.

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's getting frightened now.

He's afraid you're getting closer to the truth.

This proves what I've been saying--

Phyllis, what 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? It 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 gonna 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.

Wonderful man.

Ah, Ms. Thurlow,

I just had a call from Mrs. Fletcher.

She apologizes, but something important came up,

and 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 breakfront.

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 breakfront.

Far-fetched nonsense.

My dear lady, this is not one of your books.

Well, far-fetched or not,

it must've 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 $3000 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. Folkes, 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--

I don't 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. Folkes, you told me that he died many years ago.

When exactly was that?

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

Ah.

I assumed that your son had died before.

Before what?

Excuse me, Mrs. Folkes.

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, there you are. - Oh, Phyllis, I'm so sorry.

I meant to be here. Where's Commissioner Folkes?

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

as 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 j-- he just couldn't fight it.

So he became part of the mess

that he was trying to clean up.

Yeah.

And 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.

Thurlow was drunk and nasty.

I guess Lydia must've figured if she'd given Eddie away,

her husband would only take it out on her brother,

so she didn't say anything.

Stop it.

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 her.

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 gonna 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, is something wrong?

Uh... 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?

Surely.