Murder, She Wrote (1984–1996): Season 7, Episode 4 - Hannigan's Wake - full transcript
When Jessica learns from Phyllis Thurlow that her dear friend journalist and writer Daniel Hannigan has died, she decides to continue his research into what he had told her was the wrongful imprisonment of a man who has been in jail for 16 years. The man in question is Phyllis' brother Martin Thurlow, who was convicted of killing his wife Lydia. Daniel was convinced that the murderer was in fact Lydia's brother, Eric Grant. Grant's father is a power in town but Jessica gets good support from the Deputy Police Commissioner, Bradley Folkes. She comes to believe that Martin Thurlow is innocent but isn't convinced Grant is guilty. A bullet worn as a pendent is the vital clue that leads her to solve the mystery.
If I die, this book
dies with me,
unless someone picks up
the torch. I've elected you.
FEMALE NARRATOR:
Tonight on Murder, She Wrote.
So 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.
(WOMAN SCREAMING)
(TELEPHONE RINGING)
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.
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.
DANIEL: 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 2:00 to
5:00 and 7:00 to 10:00.
I see. Well...
Jessica. I was afraid
you'd gotten lost.
It's all right, Mr. Barish.
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 & 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.
JESSICA: 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.
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 10:00
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 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.
I see.
He was also one of
the investigating officers
in Lydia's murder 16 years ago.
BRADLEY: 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...
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 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.
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.
WAITER: 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.
MADELINE: 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.
(SCOFFS)
(SCOFFS)
Don't they have laws
about things like that?
(CHUCKLES)
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.
(PEOPLE LAUGHING)
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 10:00 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.
(GROANING DISMISSIVELY)
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? 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 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.
Well, I didn'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.
(SINGING) 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 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 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.
(SIGHS)
Mrs. Fletcher?
Oh, Mr. Thurlow.
I'm sorry to interrupt.
Oh, that's quite all right.
My eyes are giving up.
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.
(DOOR CLOSING)
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.
Come on. Great.
Thank you.
You're not gonna give
up on this, are you?
(LAUGHING) 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 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.
(INTERCOM BUZZING)
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."
RICHARD: 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 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, 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., my uncle's drug connection
from back in the good old days.
Well, 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?
(CHUCKLES)
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, not imposing. 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.
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.
(WOMAN SCREAMING)
(TIRES SCREECHING)
Are you all right,
Mrs. Fletcher?
Yes. Yes, I think so.
Yes?
This is Commissioner Folkes.
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, well, apologize
for me, will you, darling?
Of course.
(CHATTER ON POLICE RADIO)
That was a pretty close call.
Was it?
Oh, hey, excuse me.
Brad, how you doing?
Long time, Bert. How is she?
Oh, 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?
Sixty 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 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 all...
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? Why, it couldn't be.
I told you I was asleep.
I went to bed around 9:00.
I checked the hood of your car.
The engine's still hot.
I wasn't trying to hurt
you, Jessica, I swear it.
JESSICA: 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.
Miss Thurlow, I just had
a call from Mrs. Fletcher.
She apologizes, but
something important came up.
She said to proceed without her.
ERIC: 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.
RICHARD: 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.
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's 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 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.
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.
BRADLEY: 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.
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.
(GRUNTS)
(SCREAMING)
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?
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.
dies with me,
unless someone picks up
the torch. I've elected you.
FEMALE NARRATOR:
Tonight on Murder, She Wrote.
So 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.
(WOMAN SCREAMING)
(TELEPHONE RINGING)
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.
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.
DANIEL: 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 2:00 to
5:00 and 7:00 to 10:00.
I see. Well...
Jessica. I was afraid
you'd gotten lost.
It's all right, Mr. Barish.
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 & 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.
JESSICA: 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.
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 10:00
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 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.
I see.
He was also one of
the investigating officers
in Lydia's murder 16 years ago.
BRADLEY: 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...
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 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.
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.
WAITER: 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.
MADELINE: 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.
(SCOFFS)
(SCOFFS)
Don't they have laws
about things like that?
(CHUCKLES)
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.
(PEOPLE LAUGHING)
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 10:00 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.
(GROANING DISMISSIVELY)
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? 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 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.
Well, I didn'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.
(SINGING) 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 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 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.
(SIGHS)
Mrs. Fletcher?
Oh, Mr. Thurlow.
I'm sorry to interrupt.
Oh, that's quite all right.
My eyes are giving up.
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.
(DOOR CLOSING)
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.
Come on. Great.
Thank you.
You're not gonna give
up on this, are you?
(LAUGHING) 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 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.
(INTERCOM BUZZING)
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."
RICHARD: 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 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, 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., my uncle's drug connection
from back in the good old days.
Well, 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?
(CHUCKLES)
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, not imposing. 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.
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.
(WOMAN SCREAMING)
(TIRES SCREECHING)
Are you all right,
Mrs. Fletcher?
Yes. Yes, I think so.
Yes?
This is Commissioner Folkes.
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, well, apologize
for me, will you, darling?
Of course.
(CHATTER ON POLICE RADIO)
That was a pretty close call.
Was it?
Oh, hey, excuse me.
Brad, how you doing?
Long time, Bert. How is she?
Oh, 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?
Sixty 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 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 all...
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? Why, it couldn't be.
I told you I was asleep.
I went to bed around 9:00.
I checked the hood of your car.
The engine's still hot.
I wasn't trying to hurt
you, Jessica, I swear it.
JESSICA: 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.
Miss Thurlow, I just had
a call from Mrs. Fletcher.
She apologizes, but
something important came up.
She said to proceed without her.
ERIC: 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.
RICHARD: 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.
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's 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 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.
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.
BRADLEY: 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.
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.
(GRUNTS)
(SCREAMING)
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?
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.