All language subtitles for Cop.1988.1080p.BluRay.x264.AAC-[YTS.MX] (Corrected, synced, No SDH)

What city, please?

Yo, is this Information? I want information.

For what city, please?

I'm in Hollywood and I want to report a
murder. What number do I have to call?

- One moment please.
- All right, cool.

- Thank you for calling.
- You're welcome.

The Los Angeles police
emergency number is...

- Can't you connect me?
-...911.

911? Can't you connect me?

Once again, the number is...

- Sweat, sweat.
-. . .911.

Oh, man. Damn.

Fuck! Where's my fucking quarter,
you piece-of-shit machine? Damn.

I got to call them again.

I should be home, like,
watching The Flintstones, or some shit.

You have reached the City of Los Angeles
Police Emergency Dispatch Center.

All our lines are busy. Do not hang up.

An operator will answer your call
in the order it's received.

Okay, yeah. I'm first.

What the fuck is this shit, man?

Yo, I don't speak no Spanish.

Que pasa to you, too, Lupe, and I'd like
to speak to somebody else.

You have reached the City of Los Angeles
Police Emergency Dispatch Center.

This is a tape.
This is like a computer, right?

Hello? Fuck you!

Why am I even doing this shit? I can't
afford it. I'm down to my last quarter.

Let me try the damn operator.
Maybe she knows what's going on.

Operator.

Yeah, listen. I'm trying to report a murder
and I can't get no one.

Have you tried calling the police?

I got no more money.
I'm down to my stolen credit cards.

Can I use them?

One moment. I'll connect you.

What do you got?

On the Black Cat, not much.
I'm not getting any help. No leads yet.

What do you mean, no leads?
You got the crime and the F.I. reports?

"At approximately 11:30 p.m.,
Thursday, March 19...

"the Black Cat bar on Sunset and Vendome
was held up by two male Mexicans."

"They wore silk stockings to disguise
their faces, carried large revolvers."

How do you know they were Mexicans?

- They spoke with Mexican accents.
- To each other?

- I didn't ask.
- There's your first lead.

"Questioned two white males outside
residency, 2269 Tracy Street."

"They were drinking vodka and sitting
on top of a late model Camaro...

"license, blah, blah, blah."

These go to Bunko, not Robbery, Homicide.

"Explained the car was not theirs
but that they lived in the house."

"Partner and I searched them, clean.

"Got hot call before we could
run warrant check."

Check these files, Lieutenant.
Sorry about that.

You know, it's really a shame...

when I know a neighborhood
better than the beat cops who patrol it.

When I was a kid, 2269 Tracy Street
was a halfway house for ex-cons.

We used to call it "Gangster Manor."

It's been abandoned for years...

and this guy says he lives there?

There's your second lead, all right?

I was gonna hit this place in Hollywood
until I seen what was inside.

Heavy shit went down in there, man.
Like something out of a Peckinpah movie.

You better send some cops right away to
Aloha Regency, Apartment B.

You got some heavy shit
on your hands, man.

Are you presently at the scene of the crime?

This is Sergeant Hopkins.
I want that call on 2-5.

Scotty, that one's mine.

You're gonna go to the Black Cat bar,
you're gonna check with the bartender...

see if those guys spoke Spanish, all right?

- Not English with Mexican accents. Spanish.
- Spanish.

Okay. Go to 2269 Tracy,
see what you can find there.

Run to the DMV,
run a check on the Camaro...

check with R&I, see if you can find out
anything about the owner.

- You like it?
- I like it.

- Then why are you still standing here?
- Right.

You back again?

This guy's back again.
He's running a scholarship.

Fuck!

Jesus Christ.

Dutch, it's Lloyd.

I got a 187 at 7251 De Longpre, Apartment B.

I need S.I.D., the coroner,
and the on-call homicide team.

Dutch, I know this is Hollywood,
but I want this one.

Dutch, can you clear it for me?

Thanks.

I'll call you later.

Bingo.

You up, Penguin?

Come in, Daddy.

Hi, sweetheart.

Give me five.

On the side.

- Cut the pickle. You owe me a nickel.
- You owe me a nickel.

You had a bad day, didn't you?

How can you tell?

You always shake, just a little.

I'm sorry, Penguin.

It's a shit storm out there.
You know that, don't you?

Yeah.

And you know you gotta
develop claws to fight it.

- Sharp ones, Daddy.
- Attagirl.

Daddy, you owe me.

Do I'.>

- Yes, you do.
- I don't think so.

Please. It doesn't have to be a long one,
just good.

Just good?

You ready?

Once upon a time, about a year,
a year and a half ago...

Daddy had just cleared the Haverhill-Jenkins
homicide case, you remember?

Right after, I got assigned
to a robbery deployment...

a loan-out to the West L.A. squad room
because there had been a series...

of nighttime burglaries at doctors' offices
in large buildings in the Westwood area.

Cash and saleable drugs
were the burglar's meat.

Now, this guy had ripped off about
$5,000 in cash...

and a shitload of pharmaceutical speed
and heavyweight downers...

in less than a month.

The West L.A. dicks had his M.O.
figured this way:

This bastard used to hide out
in the building all clay long until nightfall...

he'd hit his mark...

and then he'd run into
a second-story office...

and jump out the window into the parking
lot, if you can believe that.

But there was evidence to point to this.

Chipped cement on window ledges.

The dicks had figured this guy
for, like, a gymnast.

Some bullshit cat-burglar type who could
jump two stories without getting hurt.

They were so sure of it...

that the commander of the squad was
setting up parking lot surveillances.

When this guy hit a doctor's office
right on Wilshire Boulevard...

that two, not one, two teams
of detectives were staking out...

that threw this commander's thesis
all to hell...

and Daddy was called in to save the day.

Tell me how you got the scumbag, Daddy.

Sweetheart, nobody jumps two stories
repeatedly without getting hurt.

So, I formed my own thesis.

This guy was just brazenly
walking out of the building.

Okay, that's enough. No more stories.

Kiss your daddy good night
and get to sleep.

Your mommy's right. It's late.
I'll finish it tomorrow.

It's okay. I know how it ends.

This is the one that ends with the
queen who did full drag B and E, isn't it?

You little bugger, you knew all along,
and you let me tell the story.

Three to five, no parole.

I love you, sweetheart.

I love you, too, Daddy. Thanks.

Good night.

Snuggle in. Snuggle.

She's really something, that little Penguin.

Do you have any idea
what you're doing to that child?

Here we go again. Daddy's gonna catch hell.

Daddy? You call spilling out all that filth
and violence being a father?

Do you, Lloyd?

Jen, what do you want me to do?

You want me to tell her
about the Three Bears? Is that it?

She's just a little girl.

An 8-year-old little girl.
Can't you get that through your head?

Let me tell you something you should get
through your head.

They're all little girls, Jen.

Every one of them.

Every one of those pathetic souls who
eventually does herself in is a little girl.

Every neurotic who lies on a couch...

and pays some asshole shrink good money
to listen to her bullshit is a little girl.

Every hooker out hustling her ass
for a pimp...

who winds up with a dyke, a habit, or
wasted by some psychopath, is a little girl.

All these little girls
have one thing in common.

You know what that is? Disillusionment.

It always comes from the same thing,
expectations.

The greatest woman-killer of all time.

A terminal disease that starts way back
when they're all just little girls.

When they're being fed all the bullshit...

about being entitled to happiness
like it's a birthright.

That's what you don't understand...

when to stop perpetrating the myths
that ruin their lives.

Innocence kills, Jen. Believe me. It kills.

I see it every fucking day of my life.

Lloyd, I think you're a very sick man...

- Jesus.
-...in need of some real help.

Christ, is that the best
you can come up with?

Can't you see that she's got to know
before it's too late?

Know what, Lloyd?
What does she have to know?

What chance has she got?

Her mother still believes in white knights
and happy endings.

I think I'm going to go check on Penny.

Then I think I'd like to sleep alone.

What else is new?

Hello?

Yeah.

Yeah, go.

That's great. No, you get some sleep.
I'll take it from here.

Gibbs? Good work, kid.

Dutch? What're you doing?

Come on, man, you can sleep anytime.

How would you like to take a couple of
armed robbers?

Yeah, by ourselves. What's the problem?
We've done it 100 times.

A stakeout. The guy's pad.

I got the address.
I'll pick you up in half an hour.

Great.

Okay. Bye.

No car, no Wilson.

I got a peek in the back.

Looks like the fucking House of Stereo in
there. It's like an electronics emporium.

- You look happy, kid.
- You're goddamn right. You?

If you are.

It's like old times. Same old thermos.
Same bad coffee.

How are things at home, Lloyd?

I tell you I'm happy,
and then you bring that up. Why?

Jen?

Why can't they fly, Dutch?

- Why can't they fucking fly like us?
- No wings, kid. It's the way they're made.

Nothing they do on their own
is much fun for them.

Without a guy, it's all a waste of time.

And if you don't mind a little advice from
your Dutch uncle, don't try to change it.

That's fucking pathetic.
There's no way Penny's gonna be like that.

She's gonna fly, Dutch. The wings are there
and they're real big ones.

You better hope the tits are there
and they're real big ones.

In this world, she'll get a lot
further with a pair of those.

Jesus, you're as bad...

It's him. It's a Camaro. It's gotta be him.

- Two in the front?
- I don't know.

No, there's two, and they're not getting out.
Come on, let's take them.

- Want to be the drunk?
-I'll be the drunk.

Okay, I'll get you home tonight.
You doing all right?

Yeah.

Gotta lay off those Singapore Slings.
That's your problem.

Hope my wife isn't mad at me.

I'll tell your wife you were out bowling,
all right?

Just tell her we were bowling.

- Let me take the driver.
- You got it.

- Set?
- Now.

Police! Don't move or you're dead.
Put your hands on the dashboard.

You, too, sweetheart.
Get them on the dashboard.

What the hell's going on?
Are you guys crazy?

Where's your Mexican accent, pal?
You only use it in bars?

I'm gonna open this door real slow...

and you're gonna get out real slow.
You got that?

- I got it, cop.
- Okay, move.

- Hey! What the hell's going on out there?
- Jesus Christ.

Dutch, you all right?

Get this piece of shit off you.
Take it easy. You've been hit? Were you hit?

Damn it. How did this happen?
You all right?

I must be getting old. Fell for that one.
Knocked the wind right out of me.

- You okay, then?
- Yeah.

Stay right here.

You can get out now.

It's okay. It's all over.

Is what's-his-name dead?

What's-his-name?
You don't know his name?

I just met him tonight,
I'm a little bad with names.

Well, I'm pretty good with them.
What's yours?

Sarah Smith.

Sarah, the bad news is what's-his-name
over there is expired.

The good news is...

if you go in that Ford and wait just a
few minutes, I could drive you home.

You mean, and I won't be involved
with any of this?

Like it never happened. Okay?

- Okay.
- Okay.

This will help at the shooting board.

Dutch, you tired?

I'm okay. Why?

I thought maybe you could stick around
and handle the details.

I'll call for the ambulance
and backup units...

in case some of the neighbors
get freaked out.

You see what I mean about big tits?

Come on, Dutch.
You blow away a broad's date...

the least you can do is
drive her home, right?

Thanks.

I remember her.
She's the one who was in here.

I don't think there's any doubt about it.
She came in about a week ago...

-and took out this ad.
- You're absolutely sure?

I'm as sure as one can be.
These are pretty small pictures.

But I remember she came in
with a pretty blonde.

Did you get her name?

No, she just waited over there.
About 35, kind of tall...

real good-looking.

Thank you.

Excuse me, Miss. Police officer.

Christ. Vice?

No, Homicide. It's about Julia Niemeyer.

That's a relief. Actually, I was thinking
about calling you guys.

Why didn't you?

You know, I just didn't know what to say.

- Why? Did you kill her?
- Of course not.

But I make it a policy not to talk to police.
They ask too many questions.

Well, we're gonna have to break policy
this time.

- What's your name?
- Joanie Pratt, age 35...

former actress, model, singer, dancer,
and what usually follows.

What do you do now?

- What usually follows.
- Which is?

-Isn't there someplace else we could talk?
- What's wrong with here?

I'm trying to spare you the police station.
So, please tell me, what do you do now?

It's illegal.

Lady, if it has nothing
to do with this murder, I couldn't care less.

I deal Quaaludes and I fuck selected
older men who don't want to get involved.

I think you're right. Maybe we should go
someplace else and talk.

I thought the papers said
she was found dead, presumably...

strangled by a burglar who panicked.

No, it was a story we gave out to the media
to keep them disinterested. So far, so good.

What I need from you
is to tell me all you can about Julia...

including what these sex ads were about.

Look, there was nothing wrong or illegal
in anything that we--

I don't give a shit if the two of you were
fucking each other in a bathtub of cocaine.

All I care about is stopping this maniac
before he kills again.

Do you understand?

- Yeah.
- So?

Well, we first met, of all places,
in the public library.

I was returning some books,
and she was taking out a whole stack, and...

I noticed they were all about sex...

so I made a friendly comment
and we got to talking and...

she told me she was doing research
for a book that she was writing.

I told her, being the voice of experience,
I might be able to help.

In what way?

I have this gig going.

It's kind of a scam.
But, I do floating swingers' parties.

See, I know some realtors
who are pretty big heavyweights, and...

I score dope for them, and in exchange...

they let me sublease these really
primo pads while the owner's out of town.

But, for what?

Well, then I place an ad,
and for $200 a couple...

they get to swing and dance and eat,
drugs, light show, all that stuff.

Anyway, Julia says she's interested.

Not to fuck, but to observe for her research.

I tell her, "You can't hassle people,
paying that kind of bread." Right?

She comes up with the idea
that she'll pay the couple's admission...

and in exchange, she'll get to observe
them and interview them.

I let her use my P.O. box,
and that's how come the ad.

Do you know anyone she was seeing
she might have had a beef with?

No, but she said that she thought there was
someone that was following her for a while.

Black, White? Short, tall?

I would have to presume he was white,
otherwise she would have said something.

When are you having your next party?

Why? Are you planning on coming?

I might. In the meantime, do you think
I could have a list of your regulars?

Come on, that's not very nice, is it?
Or don't I have a choice?

Yeah, you got a choice.

You can save innocent lives or protect
the anonymity of a bunch of horny assholes.

Let me know when you decide.

Sergeant.

It's on a Rolodex at home.

I'll come get it.

I'm sure you will.

"You grieved me more than all the rest."

All the rest?

Oh, no.

John?
No shooting board on the Wilson thing.

Harry, I need printouts
on all the unsolved female homicides...

in Los Angeles County for the past 15 years.

I need them on my desk
as soon you can get them, okay?

- Last 15 years?
- Yeah.

- You got it.
- Thanks.

Need to talk to you later, Phil.

What do you have?

What do you make of this?

It looks like blood.

If it's human,
I can get you a type in four hours.

I need it in, like, 10 minutes.

- Yeah, but if it was wet I could do that.
- Just rinse it.

Hi, neither one of us is home just now...

but if you leave your name, number,
time you called and a short message...

we'll get back to you just as soon as we can.
Please wait for the beep.

Jen, hi. It's me. I guess you went out
to a movie with Penguin.

It's after 9:00. I'm going to be here
for quite some time.

Make that all night.

Kiss Penny good night for me,
and sleep well.

BYE-bye.

Oh, God.

Hey, Dutch. I was just looking for you, man.

- You look all squeezed out, kid.
- I'm beat.

I have a real strong feeling we got
ourselves a serial on this Niemeyer killing.

Anything behind that feeling?

The killer mailed Niemeyer
a poem yesterday.

Some of the lines of that poem
could be interpreted that he's killed before.

Funny he should write to a woman
he's already killed.

That's another thing. Subconsciously,
serial killers want to get caught.

I think he mailed the poem to Niemeyer
but wrote it to us.

You know what I mean, Dutch?

Aside from that, you got anything else?

Nothing much, really.

There's the partial prints from that book...

at the Niemeyer apartment that I found.

The computer couldn't match them,
that's not unusual...

'cause the guy's probably
never been fingerprinted before.

What do you want from me?

Know how long it would take me to get the
case files on 31 unsolved female homicides?

It would take two fucking weeks...

and I'd have to go through
an inquisition to do it.

You, on the other hand,
could get them tomorrow morning...

and nobody would ask a goddamn thing.

What would I tell them if they did?

I'll come up with a common denominator,
an MO. or something.

Anything to get Gaffney and the fucking
department behind this thing.

Gaffney? Lloyd...

this is your Dutch uncle again,
and I'm telling you...

stay away from that born-again
with feelings about serial killers.

We all know that stuff panics the public
and embarrasses the department.

He's not gonna sit still--

How long is it gonna take to get these files?

Thirty-one?

Thirty-one.

- They'll be on your desk in the morning.
- Attaboy.

- And don't forget tomorrow night.
- Tomorrow night?

Estelle's giving a party for...

You'll see tomorrow.

She's counting on you and Jen being there.

Yeah, yeah.

Dear Lloyd, this is goodbye,
for a while at least.

Penny and I have gone
to stay with an old friend in San Francisco.

It's for the best.

I know that you and I have
not communicated for a long, long time.

I'm not sure that we can again,
as our values are completely different.

You are a deeply disturbed person...

and I cannot allow you
to pass your disturbance on to Penny.

I'm withholding our address
in San Francisco...

until I am certain you will not try
to do anything rash.

I will call once we're settled.

Until then, be well and don't worry.

Love,Jen.

Jen?

No, is this Sergeant Hopkins?

That's right. Who's this?

This is Joanie Pratt. I was wondering
what you wanted to do about the Rolodex.

What Rolodex?

The party list of swingers. You seemed
to think it was important yesterday.

It's important. I should have it.

Have you had breakfast yet?

I haven't been to bed yet.

If you come over
you can have a little of both.

I thought you didn't like to talk to cops.

Who said anything about talking?

What's your address?

Okay.

Julia Lynn Niemeyer. Blonde hair,
blue eyes, age 29, West Hollywood.

Caucasian.

Black.

Hispanic.

Oriental.

Black.

Black.

Whatever.

Brown eyes, 5'4".

"Blue running pants. Blue shorts.

"Gunshot wound to the head."

Too old.

Hooker.

Hooker.

Hooker.

Old.

Okay. Talk to me.

Innocent

Innocent

Innocent

All innocent.

These are yours.

Yes, Sergeant?

Sir, as you know, I've been working
full-time on the Niemeyer killing.

- Yes, and?
- Well, sir, so far, it's a stone-cold washout.

Then stick with it. I have faith in you.

Thank you, sir.

It's funny you mention that word, faith.

I say that because this case
has been a testing of my own meager faith.

I've never,
as you can probably well imagine...

been much of a believer in God, sir...

but the way I've been stumbling on
certain kinds of evidence in this case...

has me questioning my beliefs.

I go to church on Sunday
and to prayer meetings three times a week.

But when I put on my holster
I put God out of my mind.

You want something, you tell me what it is,
and stop all the bullshit.

Right.

Sir, in the course of my investigation
into the Niemeyer murder...

I've come across
strong, instinctive evidence...

that points to at least 16
other murders of young women...

dating back 15 years.

The M.O.s are varied, but the victims
were all of a certain physical type.

Now, I've gotten the case files
on these homicides, and...

chronological consistencies
and other factors...

have convinced me that all 16 women
were killed by the same man.

The man, in fact, who killed Julia Niemeyer.

What you do mean by "chronological
consistencies and other factors"?

There are four dates of death
on the exact same day.

June 10th, two in the early '70s
and two in late '70s.

And of these,
two were listed as gunshot suicides.

Now, any cop with half a brain
should have known...

that women
almost never kill themselves with guns.

Is that it?

The last two murders
have been particularly brutal...

which makes me believe
he's close to exploding.

That means we've got to
start pushing him, sir.

And I can do that with a
dozen experienced homicide dicks, full-time.

I want liaisons set up
with every other department in the country.

I need permission
to recruit uniformed officers...

for the shit work and authority to grant...

unlimited overtime,
and most important, sir...

we need a full-scale media blitz--

I haven't heard any hard, physical evidence.

You got any witnesses? Any notations
from detectives within our department...

or any department that lend credence
to your mass-murder theory?

No one's bothered to go over the files--

How many of these 16 investigations
are still open?

None. But that's the point.

Are there any other officers
within our department...

-who corroborate your hypothesis?
- No.

Other departments?

No.

Hopkins, I'm not gonna trust you on this.

Even though I must admit you're
a good detective with a good arrest record.

- Then what's the problem, sir?
- You know damn well what the problem is.

It's too old, too vague, too costly, and too
potentially embarrassing to the department.

- That's bullshit!
- Don't talk to me about bullshit, Hopkins.

Everyone knows you have a wild hair up
your ass about murdered women.

And if you really cared about God...

you'd first ask him to help you
with your personal life.

Hopkins, forget this thing.

Spend some time with your family.
I'm sure they'd appreciate it.

- Thank you for the advice, Captain.
- Hopkins.

If you go to the media, I'll crucify you.

I'll have you back in uniform, rousting
piss bums on Skid Row.

Two days. That's what you've got
to give me the help I need.

After that, you can get your fucking
field reports on the 6:00 news, sir.

Sergeant?

What can I do for you, sir?

How long you been
with the Sheriff's department, Haines?

Nine years.

- How long at the West Hollywood station?
- Eight.

Still live on Larrabee?

That's right.

I'm surprised.

West Hollywood is a faggot sewer, isn't it?

I think a good cop should live on his beat.

So do I. What do your friends
call you? Delbert, Del?

Whitey. So, what is it?

What am I here for?

- Does your beat include Westbourne Drive?
- Yes, sir.

You've worked the same car plan
your whole time at the station?

Yeah, except for a loan-out to Vice.

- You ever work Name'?
- No.

No.

Coffee.

Just checking.

Basically, I'm here to check on some
homicides that took place a few years back.

You know, looking over the files,
I noticed you came across...

a stiff back in '78.

Wrist-slash job.

A woman on Westbourne.
Does that ring a bell?

Yeah, my partner and I got an unknown
trouble squawk from the desk.

Some old bag was complaining
about this stiff's radio blasting. So...

You found another suicide
in your own building the very next year.

That's right, isn't it, Whitey?

I sure did.
Matter of fact, I got messed up by the gas.

They had to detox me at the hospital.
But they gave me a commendation.

"Deputy of the Month."
And they put my picture up in--

Both these women killed
themselves on June 10.

Doesn't that strike you
as a strange coincidence?

Maybe. Shit, I don't know.

Neither do I.

That's all, Haines.

You can go.

Whitey, you said
you wouldn't raise my nut, man.

Giving you six bills a month,
plus half the dope action...

plus kickbacks
from half the punks on the street. You said--

Don't tell me what the fuck I said.

...that's what I said. That takes money.
There's a transfer-happy new day watch...

Dutch, could you check with Internal Affairs
and see if...

Delbert W. Haines, badge 408, is under
investigation? He's a deputy sheriff.

Haines. Yeah, I'll hold.

Dave, can you get me a printout on all
monikers with Bird...

Birdie, Birdman, anything like that,
bring it to me right away? Thank you.

Dutch? Yeah, hi.

No investigation?

No surveillance?

Nothing on Haines? Okay, thanks.

I'll be there.
I just gotta go home and change...

I have to go
to a couple of feminist bookstores.

Don't ask. No, I'll be there.
Okay, Dutch, thanks a lot. Bye.

Don't you ever talk to me like a cunt.

Would you open the door, please?

I'm Detective Sergeant Lloyd Hopkins
with the police department.

You with the Intelligence division?

No. Why?

The police has a long history of trying
to infiltrate causes they deem subversive.

My poetry has been published
in feminist periodicals...

that are highly critical of your department.
Also this--

You can breathe easy. I'm gonna
leave that to Intelligence, all right?

I'm here on a completely different matter.

May I come in please, Miss...

My name is Kathleen McCarthy,
and I prefer Ms.

Ms. Okay. As long as you
promise not to call me a police person.

- Come in.
- Thank you.

I am here to investigate a murder
of a woman named Julia Lynn Niemeyer.

You wouldn't know her, would you?

No.

I have reason to believe
the killer is interested in poetry.

Possibly in this feminist poetry in particular.

What led me to this is, I found
a bloodstained book at the crime scene.

Rage in the Womb. Do you know the book?

Of course.

I'm sure it was her book.
She had this little feminist poetry section...

on her desk, and there was a space
where the book was missing. I'm sure he...

the killer, went through it.

And that makes you think
he's interested in feminist poetry?

That, and the fact that...

he sent a poem to her post office box
a few days after he killed her.

It was an original poem, and there was
a line in it that convinced me...

that he's killed before and will,
no doubt, kill again.

Look, Miss... Ms. McCarthy...

I don't want to tell you the condition in
which I found the Niemeyer woman.

But I will tell you the poem
was written in human blood.

God.

His own, probably,
which gives you some idea...

of the kind of psychopath
we're dealing with.

What is it you want from me?

I need--

I need feedback on this Rage in the Womb.
What is it about? What kind of book is it?

I need to know if you've had
strange men in your store...

specifically men in their 30s...

buying feminist literature, acting angry,
or furtive, or in any way out of the ordinary.

Rage in the Womb is an angry book.
It's a polemic...

a broadside against many things,
violence perpetuated on women in specific.

I think I sold my last copy a month ago.

To a man or a woman?

I don't think I've ever sold a copy to a man.

Actually...

I don't think...

I've had a single man in his 30s in here.

Never.

That's that.

I'm sorry.

I'd like to help any way I can.

Really.

You wouldn't like to start
with a cup of coffee, would you?

Right now I'm running on empty.

Okay. Sure.

Great.

Lloyd, I'm so glad you made it.

Hi, Estelle. This is Kathleen McCarthy.

- Nice to meet you.
- This is Estelle and Dutch Peltz.

- Miss McCarthy, a pleasure.
- That's Ms.

Oh, yeah. Ms.

- Still a pleasure.
- It's nice to meet you both.

- How you doing, kid?
- Just great.

- Why don't you get Ms. McCarthy a--
- Kathleen.

Why don't you get Kathleen a drink?
You know where.

Okay, great.

Then maybe we should talk for a minute.
I'll be in the kitchen.

Great.

- Captain.
- Sergeant.

- Would you like a drink?
- Actually, I'd rather smoke a joint.

Well, the guest list makes me nervous.

I work with these people.
They make me nervous, too, okay?

So, where's the powder room?

By the front door. Let's go this way.

Kathleen, I don't make you nervous, do I?

No.

- Not yet.
- Good.

- You dog.
- Dog.

- Chop another one?
- Not yet.

Tonight the night?

No, we are gonna sit around
reading feminist poetry. What do you think?

I didn't know there was going to be
all these heavy hitters here.

Well, that was a surprise, kid.

I took the captain's exam and passed high.

That's great. It couldn't come
at a better time, 'cause...

-I'm going to need all the clout I can get.
- That's my boy.

Couldn't even say congratulations before...

you turn it into something
for your own benefit.

Come on, Dutch, that goes without saying.

Doesn't go without saying
when you want something, though, does it?

This means you heard
about my run-in with Gaffney?

Fucking A, I heard about it.

You think Gaffney's gonna let me forget
you are my boy?

He's wrong about this one, Dutch.
We've got ourselves a serial killer.

There is no way I'm gonna get him
without the help I need.

Five guys, that's all I ask.

I already used all my clout to save your ass.

Now you want me to put it back on the line?

I don't care where you put it,
as long as I get five men.

You better care, because that group in there
is gonna be running the department.

And damn near
half of them are born-agains...

which means they will be gunning
for guys like you.

Every cunt hound, whoremonger,
troublemaker and kamikaze...

that doesn't go by the book
is on their shit list.

Give them a chance,
they'll bounce your ass right off the force.

So don't tell me you don't care
where I put it.

- Anything else I should know?
- Yeah.

I told Gaffney you'd apologize to him.

That's when I expected you to show up
with your wife...

instead of one of your girlfriends.

Shows you what a schmuck I am.

You had no play anyway, Dutch,
because my wife left me.

And I wouldn't apologize to that
sanctimonious cocksucker Gaffney...

if he offered to cop my joint...

in the commissioner's office at high noon.

How about that?

We were just chatting about you.

Did you see my date?

Are we going any place in particular?
It looks like we just passed through here.

We did.

- Are you lost?
- Maybe I am.

I'm sorry, I just like to come down here
sometimes and drive around.

It helps me to clear things out.

- Why here?
- It's where I grew up.

You're kidding.
You're not gonna believe this. So did I.

- No.
- I swear.

- In Silver Lake?
- Back there on Tracy and Micheltorena.

Griffith Park and St. Elmo.

Oh, God!

How about Daniel Webster, class of '66?

Don't remind me. I'm trying to forget
that cesspool ever existed.

You know,
I think it's just right at this corner.

What do you say we swing by
and do a memory lane number?

Don't! Please, don't. I'm sorry.

I don't want to ever see that place again.

- Jesus, it couldn't have been that bad.
- Believe me, it was.

Look, can we just get out of here?
Can we just please get out of here?

Sure.

- Are you okay?
- I'm fine.

The actual truth of the matter is that I
transferred from parochial school because...

the Mother Superior was always...

Thank you.

The Mother Superior was always
trying to get me to show her my breasts.

I talked about it in hygiene class
and attracted...

a following of lonely, bookish girls.
They became my court.

We were all poets, and we all wore
plaid skirts and cashmere sweaters.

We didn't date. There wasn't one boy worthy
of us at Daniel Webster High.

We were saving it for Mr. Right.
We were convinced that...

he would appear on the scene when we
became published poets of renown.

In the meantime, we...

We sort of loved and cared for each other.
Pathetic, isn't it?

No.

So what happened to your court?

It's what happened to me.

About a week before graduation...

some roughneck, a real...

bad kid, and his flunky...

decided to teach me a lesson.

I was working late at the Clarion.

The school paper?

And they waited until I left my locker, and...

they grabbed me and...

forced me into the boys' bathroom.

I don't have to tell you what they did.

But nothing was ever the same for me again.

I never told this story to a man before.

But I guess it was...

in the way of an explanation or apology
for how strange I was in the car.

They say time heals anything.

I was too scared and ashamed
to tell the police.

And I was too stupid
not to keep it a secret from my court.

So, for one reason or another, they all left.

They all left.

I suppose they had other virtues.

Loyalty wasn't one of them.

The awful part of it was, it was the only time
I ever really needed them...

and they weren't there.

Thanks.

I died.

My heart felt like it was buried forever.

So...

I tried looking for cheap kicks and true love.

I even slept with a lot of women.

I was looking for a new entourage.

It didn't work.

So, I started screwing a lot of guys.

That got me the entourage, all right.
They were all creeps.

I thought the only thing worthy of my
heart and soul was my writing.

That's all I did.
If it wasn't my poetry, it was my diary.

My poetry finally got published,
and I bought this bookshop.

Here I am.

So, all's well that ends well.

Well, actually, it's not the end of the story.

I left out the most bizarre part
because I was...

I was afraid that, being a man,
you wouldn't understand...

just how affected a woman can be
by this kind of thing.

I got through the rape okay.
I might as well go for the whole enchilada.

- Is that a joke?
- Yeah, it's a joke.

Are you kidding me?

See, this is what I'm talking about.
This is not funny to me.

You come in the store...

you have a degree of sensitivity, I think.

That's the only reason I went out...

with you in the first place...

because you're a perfect stranger,
and a police person on top of that.

- I must be crazy. Maybe--
- Maybe what?

Look, Kathleen, just because a person
uses a few lines to lighten a subject...

doesn't mean that subject is taken lightly,
does it?

Does it?

I guess not.

I mean, I guess so.

Okay. So now you were going to tell me
a story.

I guess so.

So sit down,
because I would really like to hear it.

I really would. So...

once upon a time...

Once upon a time...

there was a quiet,
bookish girl who wrote poetry.

She didn't believe in God...

or her parents,
or the other girls that followed her.

So she tried very hard to believe in herself.

That was easy for a while,
until something terrible happened...

and everybody left her.

The loneliness became unbearable.

She contemplated putting an end to it all.

One day, she discovered
someone loved her.

Some tender man sent her a poem
accompanied by flowers.

And he continued to send her flowers
periodically and anonymously...

for many years.

They always seemed to arrive
just when she needed them most.

For 15 years, this women has grown
as a poet and a diarist...

and she keeps his flowers pressed
and dated in glass...

in a treasure chest in her bedroom.

She speculated on her dream lover...

but never tried to figure out
who he really was.

She's taken his anonymous tribute
to her heart...

and decided to reciprocate his anonymity
by keeping her diaries private forever.

The moral of the story is...

there's a vast difference between
being alone and being lonely.

And she, no longer lonely...

knows that difference.

It almost makes you want to believe in God,
doesn't it?

You actually believe in white knights
and happy endings, don't you?

- Isn't that what every girl dreams of?
- Yeah.

But in the meantime,
they're not saving it for Mr. Right.

Who said anything about saving it?

Do you realize...

what a terrible waste that would be?

Do you?

We're going to make love, aren't we?

I don't think we should fight it.

Do you?

I don't know what I think.
It just feels so wonderful.

I know.

Just one minute, okay?

Where are you going?

I just want to take a hot bath...

and smoke some grass.

I thought people usually smoked
and washed after.

You wouldn't want me to tense up,
would you?

Oh, God, no.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Henderson. First name, Lawrence.
How's that for stepping in shit?

Get this.
Cranfield came up with a fiber element...

on that recorder
outside Whitey Haines's pad.

It's identical to the one found
in the Niemeyer apartment.

Probably from a white glove.

- That ties the killer to Whitey Haines.
- Jesus!

Okay, run a make on Henderson and
bring me what you get...

to Santa Monica and Fairfax.

I'm on my way.

Whitey Haines is escorting a convict
to the Wayside Honor Farm.

He's due back noon tomorrow.

How about Birdman? Anything?

- Henderson's been printed.
- That figures.

- What's his rap sheet say?
- Not much, a few unpaid traffic warrants.

That doesn't figure. You got a last address?

Yeah. It didn't check out, but I've got these.

Pretty.

Let's go find this little faggot.

Maybe he'll tell us who's been bugging
Haines's apartment.

Why don't you go west
to Crescent Heights...

I'll go east to La Brea. Back in...

- An hour?
- You got it.

I'm telling you, man,
Whitey wants more money.

Don't worry about it, Birdie.

Give your Johns dime bags, you'll clean up.

Clean this, asshole.
What do you think I am, a fucking janitor?

Might not be...

How you doing, man? Need some company?

I'm Sergeant Hopkins,
Parker Center Homicide. How you doing?

- How you doing?
- MacGruder said I could take a look.

- Do you mind?
- Yeah, come on in.

Appreciate it.

Jesus Christ. So much for
Birdman Henderson.

You think this is bad?
You should have been here a while ago.

The guy's brains were scattered
all over the dresser.

Coroner came in,
had to scoop them up in a plastic bag.

Deputy, could you do me a favor
and wait outside?

Yeah, I'll be by the door.

What is that?

I forgot to tell you. There's...

some writing in blood underneath the paper.

They covered it up so that the

and news guys couldn't get hold of it.

- It's supposed to be a clue.
- Can I take a look?

Sure.

What does that say?

It looks like, "We shall never yield."

What the fuck does that mean?

I don't know.

We shall never yield

I think I know what it means.
Thanks, Deputy.

Fuck. Where is it? Shit.

Yes.

"We shall never yield."

"June 10, 1973."

"June 10, 1974."

"June 10, 1975."

"March 24, 1987, Julie Niemeyer."

Bingo.

Hi, neither one of us is home just now, but
if you'll leave your name, number, time you--

This is Lieutenant Macintosh
of Internal Affairs.

Sergeant Hopkins,
this message is recorded to inform you...

that you are suspended from duty, pending
an Internal Affairs investigation.

It is incumbent upon you--

Fuck you.

Get up, you fuck!

Get the fuck up!

Get against the wall.

Walk it back. Slow. Walk it back.

"Henderson, Lawrence D...

"A.K.A. Bird, Birdie, Birdman."

Why would I kill him? He's my snitch.
Why would I kill my snitch?

Don't fuck with me, Haines.
You're in deep enough shit as it is.

Read the goddamn file.

I intend to. Get your ass in that chair.

Put your hands in there. Sit on them.

Don't you move.

I'm gonna read this file.

Then you and I...

are gonna talk about the old days
in Silver Lake.

You know,
I'm a Silver Lake homeboy myself.

This is great.

"Today...

"I employed Lawrence Henderson
as my vice finger man."

"I've told the men on the squad
not to bust him. He is a good snitch.

"Respectfully, Delbert W. Haines,
Deputy Sheriff, Badge 408."

That explains his clean rap sheet.

But it doesn't explain
a Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriff...

running dope and male prostitutes...

and getting kickbacks from fruit hustlers
all over Boy's Town, does it?

What are you going to do
with Henderson dead now?

Huh, Whitey?

Find yourself a new sewer?

When the Sheriff's dicks
link you to Henderson...

you're gonna have to find
a whole new career for yourself.

Is that right? I'm clean
all the way down the goddamn line.

I don't know anything about Henderson's
murder or any of that other shit...

or what the fuck you're talking about.

You're on some kind of outlaw trip here,
man, otherwise you'd have another cop...

here with you. I had you made the other day
when you talked about those suicides.

You're nothing but a punk cop
who likes to hassle other cops.

So you want to bust me for stealing
that file folder, you bust away, homeboy...

'cause that's all you got on me.

Okay, fat boy.

Time for a walk down memory lane.

My God!

Kathleen McCarthy.

- Who's that?
- Webster High, 1972, Kathleen McCarthy.

A girl from high school.

- It's not good enough, Whitey.
- What do you want?

Whoever killed Henderson
and God knows how many women...

sends Kathleen McCarthy
flowers every time he kills.

He also had your apartment bugged.

How the fuck do you think I connected you
and Henderson?

This killer has an obsession with you,
Whitey, and I want to know why.

Why the hell should I know?

You have five chances to tell me.

You're not going to do this, man.

You haven't got the guts.

Four chances.
Now I'm gonna give you a little help.

June 10, 1973. That's the first time
the killer contacted Kathleen.

He sent her a little poem and the flowers...

exactly one year before, you, Henderson,
Kathleen, and the killer were at...

Webster High. Something happened.

Did you and the Birdman hurt somebody?

Who was it?

We didn't do anything.

What did you do?

- Three chances, Whitey.
- Just a cunt.

Are you gonna kill me over what happened
to some cunt 15 years ago?

What did you do to her?

We just wanted to scare her, man.

We? Who's we?

Me and Bird.

You know, those bunch of cunts,
Kathy and her court...

they put everybody down.
So we started going and we couldn't stop.

- What did you do?
- Raped her!

You raped her. You fucking piece of shit!

And then we had a gangbang
with the two of us.

Who knew about it?

Who loved Kathleen McCarthy...

and wanted revenge?

God, man.

I don't know.

You can pull that trigger
till you blow my head off...

but I cannot tell you what I don't know.

Stop it.

Piece of shit.

What now?

For you, nothing.

This will be at Internal Affairs tomorrow.
You're through as a deputy sheriff, Haines.

You're a smart cop, Hopkins.
You like to hassle other cops.

Maybe you and me can make a deal.
I'm just a little fish.

You throw me back, and I guarantee you...

I'll give you brass
the size of a school of sharks.

Keep talking.
This thing's still running, come on.

I've got to piss so bad, I'm floating in it.

You really put a scare into me.

I'm going to go in there.
When I come back, we make a deal, right?

Okay, yeah.

Go ahead.

Hey.

- Hello, Dutch here.
Dutch, W's me.

Where the hell have you been?
You know you're in a lot of trouble?

I know, I shouldn't have
popped off last night--

That's history. I'm talking about right now.

Your friend, Kathleen McCarthy, and
her attorney are sitting across the desk...

from me,
wanting to file a complaint against you.

Dutch, that's bullshit.
I left her a note explaining what I did.

Maybe you ought to get over here
and explain it again.

To be honest with you, Dutch,
it'd be better if you came over here.

I just killed a cop and I think I'm gonna
need your help in squaring this one.

Let's see.

In one day, suspended from the force,
breaking and entering, robbery...

and now possible murder.

What you got lined up for tonight?

I'm this close to getting the cocksucker.

All I need is a little help.

What's a little help?

From what I found at the McCarthy place...

and from what Haines just confessed to...

I know they were both in the same class
at Webster High with the killer.

Since we've got his prints from the book
at the Niemeyer murder...

all we have to do is match them
with everyone else.

That's all?

He's never been printed,
so you can eliminate everyone else who has.

You'd still have about 20%.

You throw out Blacks, Chicanos, Asians,
you're down to less than 10.

What if he wasn't in the graduating class?

- Or maybe he was a teacher?
- What if he was the fucking janitor?

I know all that, but we got to start
somewhere. Now, what do you say?

What about the McCarthy broad?
We gotta bring her in on this.

- So, we'll bring her in.
- You stay away from her.

Right now, she trusts me.

See what I can do
about having her cooperate.

You know some place you can go?
Stay out of sight, out of trouble?

Do it.

Sarge, you never got those names
from the Rolodex.

I figured you could use them
more than I could.

I've been suspended.

Well, you need a shoulder to cry on?

To be honest with you,
dinner would be better.

Give me an hour, and you've got it.

I'll be there.

Thanks.

Hello.

Goddamn it.

Keep your mouth shut.
Let me do the talking.

Not a word. Not a peep.

Ms. McCarthy.

I hope you don't mind, but I asked
Sergeant Hopkins to join us.

He's got something to say to you.

I'm returning your diary.

If it's any consolation, I didn't read it.

It's never been opened.

And I would like to extend my apologies.

Do you really think after what you did,
I'd be willing to help you?

Kathleen, you'd be helping yourself.

We're convinced the mass murderer is
the one that's been sending you the flowers.

Oh, Christ. This is ridiculous.

He's a gentle, tender man,
who's incapable of hurting anyone.

You have, believe me,
no idea what this man is capable of.

All you know is what you've created
in your own fantasy.

Lloyd.

Whoever he is, Kathleen, he has
this twisted, obsessive love for you...

that dates back to when you were
in the same class together in high school.

Dates back to the day that you were raped...

by Delbert Haines,
and again by Lawrence Henderson.

You're sick.

Dutch, I'm sorry.
This is a capital murder case.

The killer knew who the rapists were...

and he knew about your court of girlfriends
deserting you after it happened.

He has been punishing the same
innocent types of women ever since.

That's the modus operandi of this crime.

You'd make up anything to hurt me,
wouldn't you?

Did I make up the dates of the murders?

Did I make up the dates
he sent you the flowers?

For 15 years, they've been
within a day of each other every time.

This is insane.

Jesus Christ!
She's supposed to be a feminist.

Don't you give a shit about all the innocent
women this lunatic has been killing?

Don't you dare attack me!

You're the only lunatic in this sordid mess!

I am not gonna deal with this lunatic.

You sit down and shut up!

All right?

Yeah, all right.

Kathleen, I'm sorry.

Just hold on one second.
Let me show you how this breaks down.

We got 30 names
that according to the national computer...

have never been fingerprinted.

Of these, two are deceased,
four have moved away...

16 are either Blacks, Chicanos or Asians.

One is a well known
professional ball player...

and one is
an equally well known entertainer.

You see,
that leaves six names circled in red.

That's all you have to do. Just six names.

It'll be a couple of seconds.

Let me show you just how it's gonna go,
all right?

Thank you.

You see,
what we'd like you to do, Kathleen...

is simply tell us everything you can
possibly remember about each individual...

as I call out his name. You can use the
yearbook picture to refresh your memory.

And just take as much time as you need.

I know I agreed to do this,
but nonetheless, it just seems really unfair...

to ask me to condemn these people
because of some...

character trait they had as teenagers.

Fuck this bullshit! We're wasting time.

Dutch, I'm gonna get this cocksucker
with what we've got.

You'll sit down! That's what you'll do!

I'm not staying here
unless this fucker shuts up!

He's going to shut up! Right?

Right.

He's not going to open his mouth again.
All right? Okay?

I promise you that. Here, let me, here...

Just sit down. It'll only take a couple
of seconds, all right? Come on.

You'll see how easy it is.

Now we'll start with Benson.

First name, Claude. I got all the pictures
right here. See this? Remember him?

Yeah, I remember him. I didn't know him.

There's nothing
I can tell you about this man.

Okay, that's all right.

You'll do the best you can. How about...

Dennison, first name, Earl.

Right here.

Yes, I remember him.

- Dennis the Menace.
- Menace?

To all the other schools.

Okay? He was a star athlete.

Seems like all he did was sports.

You didn't know him?

The athletes liked the cheerleader types.

How about Franco?

First name, Robert.

What about Franco?

I remember him.

What? What did she say?

I want to see the two of you. Right away.

Yes, sir.

Look, we've just got three more names.
You see everything that's circled in red.

You can see that and what's covered there.

Write down anything
you remember about them.

Take all the time you need.
We'll be right back.

Just take a minute.

- How'd I do?
- Terrific. Nice, light touch.

Let's see what he wants.

My business is with Hopkins.

But since you seem to have a protective
interest in this troublemaker...

you'd better hear this, too.

Hopkins, this the only time
I'm actually pleased...

you've shown up where you don't belong.

Because now I can hear first-hand
your explanation of this.

Christ! He must've been in the house
the whole time.

- Who?
- The killer.

Who do you think took this picture?

What I wanna know is
what were you doing there?

What was I doing there?

What the fuck does it look like
I was doing there?

Come on, Dutch, we're wasting time.

Look, let me finish up in there, and--

You've already finished in there. As a matter
of fact, you've finished everywhere.

If Dutch weren't here to vouch for you,
I'd have you taken into custody right now.

As it is, there's going to be a hearing
to determine if you're to be brought up...

on criminal charges on a
half-dozen different beefs...

including killing a fellow officer.

Is that all?

I'll take your badge and I'll take your gun.

I'll take your word that he'll no longer
interfere with the investigation...

and be available for the hearing.

- You got it.
- Okay.

- That's all.
- Thank you.

This is shocking.

Shit.

- Hello.
- Hello?

Is this Bobby Franco?

Yes, it is.

Thank God I reached you.

You may not remember me, but...

my name is Kathleen McCarthy
from Daniel Webster High School.

- I remember you well, Kathleen.
- You do'?

You may not believe this, but...

there's this crazy policeman...

who's got your name
on a list of suspects that...

he thinks is a mass murderer.

Why would he think that?

I don't know.

He's got some insane ideas of...

But when he finds out
that you were a poet...

and that you were on the poetry review
with me...

he'll come after you. He'll swear it's you.

He's gonna hurt you.

What's his name?

Sergeant Lloyd Hopkins.

Okay, you've heard my name,
now tell me yours.

What's in a name, Hopkins?

- Did you get my message?
- Yes, I got your message.

I've also got Kathleen McCarthy.

Now, she can tell me your name, what is it?

Don't hurt her.

Don't hurt anyone else.

Let her go, Hopkins.
She's not like all the rest.

What? Are you talking to deal?

Just let her go.

- Then what'?
- Then we just got you and me.

That's the kind of deal I like.

- You pick the time and the place, homeboy.
- How about a reunion?

- Webster High in an hour.
- You got“.

Why would you do that?

I thought he was innocent.

I thought you would persecute
what I thought was a...

- talented and sensitive boy. I'm sorry.
- It's okay.

It's okay.

Just get back in there
and give Dutch his name...

in case he doesn't show up.

You're gonna kill him, aren't you?

I don't know.

Maybe this time you'll get to send him
the flowers.

What're you doing up there?

The class is down here.

Looks like you didn't do your homework,
Sergeant.

A sawed-off shotgun
won't cut it from up there.

Don't even think about it.

Get up.

Well?

Well, what?

Aren't you going to read me my rights?

Cuff me? Take me into custody?

Why, so you can sit
in a nice comfortable cell?

Let your smart-ass lawyer
cop an insanity plea, is that the idea?

What's it to you, Hopkins?

You're a cop. You've got to take me in.

There's some good news,
and there's some bad news.

The good news is, you're right, I'm a cop
and I got to take you in.

The bad news is I've been suspended,
and I don't give a fuck.