03x23 - Justice Deferred

[bunniefuu]

Hey, Walensky! Walensky!

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

Nothing. Look!

Hey, we better call a priest!

Priest?

For this you call a cop!

How you doing, Lieutenant?

I can't sell a dental appointment for this.

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

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

like a typical syndicate scratch.

Hardly worth the paperwork.

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

They dug
this out of the foundations?

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

Anything else?

Just bones, clothings and shreds.

Okay, Curly,

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

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

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

indicates a small bore
weapon,

possibly a .22.

So?

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

and a .22 is
not your typical k*ll g*n.

Execution. Looks more like dumb luck to me.

Any idea when this building went up?

Yeah, in 1957, according
to the foreman here.

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

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

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


you know what you're asking?

You know, archeologists
are still trying to solve the

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

Detective?

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

They don't have Johns.

Yes, Beth?

There's a call and they
gave you name.

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

Hello?

Keith.

Monica, how nice to hear from you again.

Have you seen the
papers?

Yes, of course.

And you're not concerned?

No, not in the least.

Keith!

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

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

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

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

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

Gomez, you're on.

No, I'm getting out.

Stay, stay.

Yeah.

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

next to impossible to establish
identity through existing dental records.

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

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

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

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

Dentist?

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

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

Rizzo,

I want you to phone Doc Egenweiler,

see if he can squeeze me in this afternoon.

Okay, because I got a tooth
that's k*lling me, isn't it?

Tricuspid.

Yeah, what races is he in? Go ahead.

There's two additional
pieces of information.

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

held together by bone
grafts and two steel pins.

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

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

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

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

Any labels from the
clothes?

Oh, No, nothing.

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

I get Washington's
farewell to the troops.

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

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

You think we're working the kid too hard?

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

number that he's been
running around with lately.

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

It was a .22, possibly a target
p*stol, but its slants and

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

How does he do that, Captain?

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

Bonjour, Madame.

Bonjour, Roger.

A thousand pardons.
Monsieur McCallum just telephoned.

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

Detained? For how
long?

I don't know.

We traced the bridge work to a finder.

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

And who were the
smoke sergeants?

I did.

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

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

A local manufacturer
of quality men's suits,

and they carry the
line in three stores.

We managed to come up with
a fairly comprehensive list of

all the regular customers
during the crucial time period.

Damn it, such a list.

Simultaneously, and with the
cooperation of the local medical

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

and pertinent information
elicited wherever possible.

Pastrami on rye Russian dressing.

Your party.

You never had us up there, huh?

Well?

Well?

Well?

Well, we checked our
information against those men

who were reported missing
during calendar year 1957...

who generally match the
victim's physical description.

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

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

Give me the ME.

Right, Lieutenant.

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

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

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

Oh, it's how he k*lled his wife.

Well, nobody's perfect, right?

Lieutenant, the ME's on the line.

Moskowitz.

Yeah?

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

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

which means that
it isn't too likely he

busted that leg in the
performance of his job.

How else?

Auto accident?

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

Hey, hey, what about sports?

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

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

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

All right, put together
a list of ski resorts.

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

Start contacting doctors
in their general vicinities.

What happens if we
still come up with zilch?

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

you start working your
way gradually westward.

Yeah, only Lewis and Clark had an
Indian scout.

So did General Custer.

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

Yeah, bacon and
tomato, white bread, right?

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

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

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

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

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

Here, have a cupcake.

Maybe, for some reason,
the deceased was never

reported missing, and
thanks for listening.

Ah, Saperstein, 86th and missing men.

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

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

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

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

Can you walk?

A lot you care.

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

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

All right, what was that name again?

Spell it, Saperstein.

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

All right, thank you.

Last of these.

Dear chap Atlas, your pal Hercules

is about to lift the world
from your sagging shoulders.

Do you see this name?

Gary Braden.

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

That's what you want, huh?

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

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

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

handling the suits with
the distinctive bone buttons,

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

So, get cracking, Ace.

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

Move!

Where's Gomez?

You sent him home, Lieutenant, remember?

That was yesterday.

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

How'd you call his pad, Shorty?

Tell him to get it over here.

I'm sending a vice
squad after his girlfriend

with orders to book her
as a public health hazard.

I love that suit.

Brooks, Givenchy, Saint Laurent.

Yours did have marvelous taste.

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

Keith!

Smile, Monica.

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

I believe you would, Gary.

The late, unlimited Mr. Braden.

Bones, Monica.

A bag full of disinterred bones.

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

Urban renewal, Monica.

There was a time when
a building could last

a half a century before
anybody tore it down.

Now the foundation hardly
has a chance to settle.

Much progress.

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

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

All right, they've uncovered the remains,

but the remains of what, Monica?

Use your head, my love.

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

They could trace a
snowflake and a blizzard first.

Ah, the artichoke.

You're going to love it for us.

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

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

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

No, the name you gave me, Gary Braden.

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

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

Stavros, what can I tell you?

You want us with or without the Novotane?

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

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

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

Braden, I said.

Now where have I heard that name before?

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

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

That's the kind of a memory Charlie has.

Gary Braden, fugitive embezzler,

died May 12th, 1957

in the crash of an airliner bound for Rio.

May 12th?

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

Yeah...

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

I'm sure you're mistaken, Lieutenant.

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

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

You know, Braden's disappearance,

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

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

Empire State Mutual Funds
and Gary was a controller.

The first inkling we
had that something was

amiss was when the
airliner went down at sea

and Gary's name appeared
upon the passenger list.

Of course, there
being no reason why he

should not notify us
when he left the country,

we ordered an immediate audit

and discovered nearly $3 million missing.

Now, of course, the company went bankrupt

and many small investors
lost their life savings.

It was a very tragic calamity, Lieutenant.

Would you like a highball?

Can I offer you some refreshment?

No, thank you.

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

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

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

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

You spoke to him personally?

No, he called my secretary.

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

Well, that's a trifle impossible.

She's been dead six or seven years.

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

Why would anyone want to k*ll
him and then hide the corpse?

I can come up with something.

Just suppose Braden wasn't an embezzler.

Suppose he discovered the shortage.

Suppose he confronted
the perpetrator or

perpetrators and had
been wasted for his trouble.

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

guilty flight to Brazil set up.

Really, Lieutenant,

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

But why would your hypothetical
k*ller go to such complicated lengths?

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

It's not bad.

Embezzler flees to Rio,

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

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

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

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

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

Convenient, isn't it?

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

But before boarding the plane,

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

Now, four days elapsed
between the burial of the

corpse and the departure
of the Brazilian flight.

Now, tell me this, Lieutenant.

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

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

And it's, uh,

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

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

Well, Lieutenant,

ever since infancy,

I've always had the uncanny ability

to always land on my feet.

What can I tell you?

Good job, here.

Hello?

It's Monica? It's Keith.

Yes.

Now, not to worry,

but there's a distinct possibility

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

Lieutenant Kojak.

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

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

Then, uh, you're
not sweating it.

Aye, not in the least.

Beth?

Yes?

Contact the guy, Bridges,
with the Trojan security.

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

Right away, sir.

A pretzel, yes, sir.

Thank you, sir.

I want a pretzel, not a weapon.

Take another one.

Sorry about that.

No mess.

Yeah, Lieutenant. Yeah, try to stay awake.

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

Oh, yeah, Lieutenant. I almost forgot.

Sure.

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

resembling Gary Braden's
general description,

who are reported missing
honor immediately 57.

Yeah, I don't get it, Lieutenant.

What are we looking for?

We're looking for a ringer, Gomez.

A dead ringer.

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

Maychak Karl.

Reported missing June 25th,

nearly six weeks
after the airline crash.

Yeah, not too promising, huh?

Says here a Wilbur Dietz found the report.

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

We're trying to locate him now.

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

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

How should I know?

I want to be out of here.

Okay, just give me a rest.

How's it too, Lieutenant? Lousy.

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

Not too crazy about the
work schedule, though.

Why don't you ship her to the Catskills?

She'd make a terrific boys' camp counselor.

Oh, it's funny, Lieutenant. Funny.

How you doing, Captain?

Leo, surprise, surprise.

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

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

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

was no accident.

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

whoever perpetrated the initial homicide

may be responsible for over


There's logic to it, Frank.

The disappearance of that airliner
disposed of both the alleged embezzler

and the missing loot.

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

commissioner really wish
me to drop the investigation?

No.

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

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

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

Circumstantial evidence, sure.

But nothing we go to the grand jury with.

Braden's dentist, deceased.

Son took over the practice,
examines the fillings,

claims it looks like Papa's work,

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

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

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

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

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

the steel pins.

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

After nearly 20 years,

listening to a man well into his


Would you?

Uh, boss, we found Braden's widow.

Damn.

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

Oh, no, not you, dummy.
This c*ck pizza?

Just shank my tooth.

Gibney.

Uh, that's your maiden name?

Yes. I, uh,

reverted back to it because of the scandal.

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

No.

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

Ah. Had you any forewarning,
any inkling of what

Mr.Braden was involved in?

Gary and I were separated at the time.

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

And when was the
last time you saw him?

Uh, about a month

before the
disappearance. I think.

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

Only by mail.

My allowance checks
would come once a week.

They always arrived on a Monday.

On Monday, huh? I see.

Did you receive a check on Monday,

May 11th, the day before the crash?

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

I contemplated calling Gary.

But then I decided to wait a day,

allowing for some
mix-up at the post office.

Sure enough, on Tuesday morning,

the check arrived.

I noted the postmark.

It was, uh, Sunday afternoon.

You have a phenomenal
memory, Mrs.

Braden.

Not really, Lieutenant.

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

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

sure you can appreciate
that this subject hardly revives

nostalgic memories.

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

My husband had no
relatives, Lieutenant.

I was his sole beneficiary.

You won't find me
pretending to grieve.

I believe the Lord helps
those who help themselves.

Oh, he do indeed.

But had your husband merely vanished,

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

years for him to be
declared legally dead.

Seven years, yes.

And not only would you not
have collected on the double

indemnity clause.
It's possible the insurance

company might have
refused to pay anything at all.

Except for Gary Braden's
name on that passenger

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

Not a dime store, Lieutenant.

Please, give me a little
more credit than that.

Oh, I do.

Yeah.

Saperstein, I want you to
determine if either Monica Gibney

Braden or her husband
ever filed for divorce.

Well, what's that
supposed to buy us?

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

There are only three
primary grounds, insanity,

abandonment, and adultery.

And to prove the lie that you had a name of

correspondent, you
get my drift, Saperstein?

I got it now, boss.

Terrific.

Yes, ma'am, can I help you?

Young man, I'm Emily Pembroke.

You'll see,

I wish to see Detective Second
Grain, Demosthenes Stavros.

Is he expecting you?

Well, we spoke on the phone.

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

You see, I've never been inside

a police station before.

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

Oh, oh, are you

a gumshoe?
-Yes, ma'am.

Oh, good.

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

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

Right this way. This way.

Yes. Stavros, old buddy.

This is Miss Emily Pembroke, Mr.

Braden's private secretary.

Oh, Miss Pembroke,
please sit down.

That's Miss Pembroke.

I've been liberated.

Now about Mr. Braden.

Of course. You see, personally,

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

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

But he had been acting somewhat

peculiarly, you know.

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

What about his marriage?

Oh, Mr. Braden was a very private person.

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

And then only by accident.

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

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

wife notified me that
he no longer lived there.

Do you suppose I might have a cup
of coffee?

Rizzo...

What about other women?

If my boss was a secret swinger,

it was the neatest treat
since Jekyll and Hyde.

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

Black.

Okay.

What about when Braden phoned in sick

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

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

and I took it for granted that
the weekend would bring

Mr.Braden around.

He never was one
to coddle himself.

Thank you.

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

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

Please, you won't say anything.

I wouldn't want to hurt his feelings.

Feelings? Whose feelings?

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

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

and this has got to be absolutely

the vilest concoction I've ever tasted.

Well,

then remain our little secret.

Oh, good.

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

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

on my lunch
break and I persuaded

the super to let me in
with his passkey,

Mr.Stavros.

The apartment was empty.

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

I mean, this dude, wherever he is,

he's got to be a born loser.

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

Now look, hash
slinger, pearl diver,

grease monkey,
warehouse jock, you name it.

You name it!

It don't make any mind to him.

Well, it does to me.

I don't want any
excuses, Burgess.

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

I've been in touch with both Aero Brasilia

and the Federal Aviation
Investigators on a crash.

Here's what they come up with.

While it was never
admitted publicly, the

possibility of a b*mb
was strongly suspected,

but no trace of the wreckage was ever found

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

A b*mb constructed by anybody.

Well,

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

Three million balloons can
generate a lot of willpower.

Today, with all those
sophisticated detection devices,

it couldn't be smuggled on board,

but 18 years ago.

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

a drugstore alarm clock
after 18 years?

Yeah.

Yeah, Gomez, hold it.

Yeah, Gomez.

Yeah, I'm out in Bensonhurst, Lieutenant.

Mount Heave gone home for the elderly.

Oh, didn't think you were that old.

No, I'm not signing myself in.

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

filed that missing prices
report on Carl Maychak.

Hold tight.

Adios, amigo.

Lieutenant, your hunch paid off.

On May 7, 1957,

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

So?

So that's it.

Go find Rosemary Hawkins.

You got it.

Carl Maychak,
who could forget him?

Always behind on his rent, he was.

But go holler on such a
good hearted schmoogeggie.

He disappeared, you know.

Yes, that's why we are...

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

this big business
proposition he'd fallen into,

guaranteed to make
him wealthy for life.

Wouldn't be you
smoke cigars, officer?

No, but I could offer you one of these.

No, don't offer.

It's not allowed.

But if you want to
light one up, maybe

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

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

He was sworn to secrecy.

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

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

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

That was the last we
saw of Carl Maychak.

Nothing personal,

but a Corona Corona, that's not.

Well, what happened to the boy?

We carried him as long as we could.

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

But when

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

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

The juvenile authorities
took charge of little Anton.

Little. Let's see.

He'd be 24 now.

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

it is anyone's guess.

Can you recall
anything at all, Mr.

Dietz? Anything before
Maychakk's disappearance

that would be significant
to us?

No, I'm sorry.

Except Carl was a very happy man.

Such happiness I
never saw in all my life.

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

He saw the man.

What man?

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

Anton came home just
as the man was leaving.

Commerce, yeah.

A box of cigars for Mr. Dietz.

No, thank you.

Say you do track down Maychakk's kid.

You're pinning a lot of
hopes on the recollections

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

No.

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

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

Gary Braden, Carl Maychak.

Without a scorecard,

their own mama couldn't tell them apart.

Granted, too, that Maychak was last seen

on the very day the
Brazilian flight that left LaGuardia.

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

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

All right, clown this.

Wonder Boy Keaton McCallum on his duff

following the collapse of
Empire State mutual funds

makes a meteoric comeback in 1958

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

Delaware corporation whose
board of directors consists of four

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

in McCallum Enterprises.

Braden's widow, Monica Gibney.

It stinks, Frank.

Come on.

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

But if the grand jury's
waiting for a smoking

g*n, somebody better clue
them that they're 18 years too late.

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

Well, her name's not
Rosemary Hawkins anymore.

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

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

He sacks out at a roach
farm on the Bowery.

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

Hmm,



All right, Burgess. Thank you.

I'll take it from here.

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

It wasn't anything serious.

I mean, he was unhappy
and lonely,

and so was I.

I had just moved here from Nebraska.

I was a divorcee with a
small daughter to support.

There'd been an ugly custody battle.

That's why I moved east,

to get away from my ex-husband.

Gary was gentle, understanding,

and good to Sandy.

Did you know he was married, Mrs.
Villapiano?

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

And one day, out of the blue,

I was named as
correspondent in Mrs.

Braden's divorce action.

I called Gary at the office.

He was just served himself.

We met at my apartment
to discuss the situation.

Well, I was half out of my mind.

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

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

I'd never seen him in such a state.

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

He was going to talk to Monica

and force her to withdraw her action.

He went storming out

after telling me not to worry.

I never heard from him again.

Well, you must have tried to contact him.

I had no idea where he lived,

except that he'd moved
into a bachelor apartment

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

I called the office the next day,

and they told me he was out sick.

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

Braden? Well,
what could I think?

Gary knew where to reach me.

He could have made the effort

if he cared enough, so he didn't.

He just grabbed the money and ran.

Anyway, I still made out.

Gary's death halted
the divorce proceedings.

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

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

That's quite possible. The
reason you never heard

from him is because
he died that same night.

Well, how's that possible?

Well, we believe that the
man that boarded that plane

the following Tuesday
might have been an impostor.

Yeah, it could have been.

You know, Gary had

a sort of commonplace kind of face.

He was often mistaken
for somebody else.

Once, it was a few weeks before he disappeared,

Gary was helping me
hang new curtains,

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

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

It could have been
a TV repairman.

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

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

He must have.

A story like that?

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

Mm-hmm.

This lady drags a kitten.

Says he's got this g*n.

It's the first she knows of it.

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

Uh, 22 target p*stol, right?

Yeah, the kids apparently had it for days.

Mama found it while she
was cleaning up his room.

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

firing to see if it's the same
g*n that wasted our John Doe.

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

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

tell them to see if it's
possible to determine

who the g*n was originally registered to?

Lieutenant,

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

This is my vintage year.

Oh, good she cool.

All right, so what do we got here now?

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

I love these movies.

It's just like the movies, you know?

You play Watson, I'll be Sherlock Holmes.

And we've recovered what we've
presumed to be the m*rder weapon.

Oh, well.

You know something?
I really feel like Sherlock Holmes.

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

Now, obviously, Watson,

Braden's widow will
have to be quizzed again.

He split Rosemary's pair to have a showdown

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

Next day,

he's dipped in cement.

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

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

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

on that subject.

Oh, my dear Watson,

we can only find

that Maychak kid.

Lieutenant, Stavros is on the phone.

He just located Anton Maychak.

I can't understand it.

He came in about 15 minutes ago,

collected his key, and he went upstairs.

Didn't go out again.

Not through the lobby.

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

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

Our agents kidnapped him.

Going to t*rture Anton for
information about his old man, huh?

You want to run that by
me again?

Oh, he's pappy.

That's all Anton ever talked about.

You couldn't shut him up.

Everybody figured he
was just blowing smoke.

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

Just what did Maychak
say concerning his father?

Boy.

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

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

And the reason he
couldn't stay in touch with

Anton was on account
it would blow his cover.

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

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

I thought he was pulling my chain.

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

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

We'll check the CIA.

We'll throw in the FBI.

Whatever makes you happy.

That window usually left open?

No, no, only in the summertime.

Let me see.

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

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

I just want the kids'
personal effects inventory.

And I might desk the
first thing in the morning.

Yes, sir.

Why are we stopping ever?

Why wasn't Maychak back in his hotel room?

Why go to the trouble
of putting the snatch app

and having done so, is
our k*ller going to pack

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

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

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

Lieutenant? Captain?

Over here.

This time we got here
ahead of the cement mixers.

Same, M.O.

But for a different reason.

Anton Maychak m*rder*d.

It could raise a lot of questions.

But Anton Maychak vanished,

just another deadbeat barry skip.

Well, let's face it, g*ng,

we've been outflanked.

Okay, bye.

Boss,

that's one of the two
target p*stol we recovered.

It was purchased by Gary
Braden in November of 1956.

Burdened by his own piece?

Doesn't fit, Captain.

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

So, we'll rewrite it.

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

Add to it the fact that
he had left Rosemary

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

Now, it's highly unlikely
that he was packing the g*n

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

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

That's possible, but highly improbable.

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

So, unless he was walking
into a preconceived ambush,

also highly unlikely,

how did the k*ller come
up with the victim's g*n?

The k*ller already had the g*n.

Braden moved out on the misses, right?

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

and he took off.

All right? The p*stol was left behind.

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

Monica grabbed the g*n and shot him.

Then panicked. She phoned Keith McCallum,

spilling her guts to him.

He hurried over, took
charge of the situation,

disposing of Gary's corpse,

and instructing the widow, hey, keep cool.

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

And McCallum knew just how to pull it off.

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

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

Which he did by explaining Gary's absence

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

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

probably left behind at
monikers like the p*stol.

And Carl Maychak

once McCallum had tracked him down,

could have been more accommodating.

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

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

he climbed aboard that plane
carrying a b*mb in his luggage.

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

But the D.A.

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

Anton Maychak,

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

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

And this is his estate.

Twenty-four fun-filled
years on this glorious

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

Some snapshots of his daddy,

couple of Christmas
cards, birth certificate.

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

St.Andrew's orphanage.

Well, five-rated capper key.

KM 61251.

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

about his daddy being a
secret agent is just dogwash.

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

But five-beta capper?

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

Devoted to his kid?

T-Totler?

No known vices?

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

What are you looking for,

Lutan? That rundown
on Karl Maychak.

Here it is.

Dropped out of high
school in the 10th grade.

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

There's another man with the same initials.

Keith McCallum.

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

Anton Maychak had built a dream.

Pursuant to our conversation
Friday last, and having consulted

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

Yes, Beth.

Lieutenant Kojak to see you, Mr. McCallum.

Send him in.

One day,

for no reason at all,

I discovered it was missing.

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

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

That's how it goes sometimes.

McCallum.

Phi Beta Kappa.

Scholastic merit.

Or Phi Vita Kappa.

Phi for fat, Vita

for beautiful, and Kappa for cops.

And between us two,

we've compiled maybe



You being a prudent man, if I was you,

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

This is the big time, baby.





Credit where credit is due.

And I thought the age
of chivalry was dead.

Good job, Royce.

You ready for the
biggest laugh of all?

Don't forget to read that punk his rights.