marchand.
your gun in that palisades shooting is no good.
it's a perfectly good weapon. a heckler & koch nine-millimeter. it's just no good as evidence. it's never been fired.
yep. bought by mr. thomas crawford and registered to his wife, about a month ago. apparently a gift.
is that a question?
do you have a question i can answer? beat. willy shakes the puzzle off, irritated:
ya think?
marchand.
we can't find it, willy.
i know. i don't know what to tell you. i'm there now.
i'm here now. my team has been here twice already. do you really need it?
he went pro se, right?
you've got a confession and an airtight bunch of circumstantial. we've gone over this place top-to- bottom three times now, willy. willy takes a breath. thinks it through.
must be rough, figuring out what you're gonna do with all that money.
oh gee - lemme see if i can express how much sympathy i have: marchand snaps his phone shut. willy smiles, hangs up. but then his smile fades, as he glances down again at crawford's box of papers. hundreds of pages. every single one scrawled no. willy considers them.
and the tool shed, and the roof, and the h.v.a.c. ducts.
what did he do: rip open a door frame, hide the gun inside and re-plaster the wall before swat showed up?
we checked. he might have passed it off to somebody, willy. had an accomplice, waiting, out the back. willy shakes his head, grim. pacing.
i'm sure. willy grimaces. fuming, relentless:
but then he carries her back there. why? willy walks along the path defined by the drops of blood:
neighbor comes to the door. willy nods, comes out - crosses to the foyer:
so everybody knows he's dangerous - and she might still be alive.
i'm sorry, willy. willy won't respond - because accepting the apology means admitting he's got nothing left.
willy. there's nothing here. willy has barely slept all weekend. he shakes his head, reviewing the hotel surveillance tapes on a vcr. tv, stubborn.
two months before he shot his wife, this guy had his investigator watching the cop at work. he knew exactly how it would go down - and he didn't leave any loose ends.
had to see it for himself.
the unmade bed. her panties. man's gonna shoot his wife in the head, he needs to get himself all worked up. willy stares at the grainy black-and-white figure emerging from the room, walking away down the corridor. unconvinced:
willy, go home. tomorrow you go back into court and take your lumps - then you start your cushy new life, and you forget all about this one. and then you can lend me money and shit. willy says nothing. runs the tape back and then slow-motions it forward again. marchand goes out. leaving willy alone, watching crawford.