All language subtitles for Kolchak.The.Night.Stalker.S01E06.Fire.Fall.WEB-DL.DDP2.0.H.264-squalor_track3_eng

Remember
the penny arcades...

that used to be so much fun
when you were a kid?

For a handful of coins,
you could test
your strength,

your skill
at a pinball machine.

Those arcades were a lot
of things to a lot of kids,

but there was one particular
arcade that represented
something special for me.

It was here that began
one of the most terrifying
experiences of my life.

September 3, 1:00 a.m.

Rabino's Arcade was
a little different than
the one you might remember.

It was a regular bagman's drop,
a narcotics pickup...

and sometimes a center
for cleaning up old business.

Frankie Markoff,
convicted arsonist,
was cleaned up.

Ryder Bond, musical prodigy
at 14, internationally
respected conductor at 40.

A gifted man with
a nearly fatal devotion
to punctuality.

September 7, 6:40 p.m.

The Lake Shore apartment
of George Mason,

first violinist
and concertmaster
of the Great Lakes Symphony.

Mr. Mason was trying for
his customary preconcert nap.

- No. No, it's all right,
Randolph.

No! Randolph!

Randolph, no!

I picked up Mason's death
on my police radio.

It sounded enough like news
to take me off
my current assignment...

in the hope that I could
beat the local paparazzi
to the scene.

Unfortunately, some of them
have police band radios too.

Kolchak, I.N.S.

As you know, we can't issue
any statement until there's
a preliminary investigation.

I have witnesses to question.
Until then, anything I told you
would be pure speculation.

How about speculating,
Sergeant?

It's my opinion, Kolchak,

that we clear the room.

- What did the witnesses see?
- That's the idea behind
my questioning them.

- What happened to Mason?
- Isn't it obvious?
The guy was smoking in bed.

- I didn't see any ashtrays.
- That's his problem.
Mrs. Sherman?

Mrs. Sherman,
I'm Sergeant Mayer.

Oh.

The time was exactly
15 minutes before 7:00.

I always take Randolph out
for his nighty-night stroll...

from 6:30 to 7:00.

Well, that's sounds like
an awfully long time
for such a tiny little dog.

Is he con-- Well, I mean,
does he have blockage problems?

- Kolchak.
- Yes.

- But he's much better.
- Yes.

Well, have you
tried mineral oil?

- That sometimes helps.
- Now, Kolchak--

I wouldn't try anything
without talking it over
with the vet.

Turner? Turner!

- A little exercise
might help too.
- Get Kolchak out of here.

Well, now, Turner--
Turner--

Turner, you're hurting my arm.
That's police brutality.
Wait a minute--

You said you saw
somebody leave this apartment.
Did you recognize him?

Yes, as a matter of fact,
I did recognize him.

All right, all right.

Wait--

- Oh, uh--
-

- Mrs. Sherman, do you remember
me? I was with Sgt. Mayer.

Well, he certainly takes
a dim view of you.

Well, he's
a little dimwitted anyway.

We disagree about a lot
of things. He hates dogs,
and I adore the little tykes.

The gentleman that you saw
outside the hall here, outside
of Mr. Mason's apartment--

Who was he?

Oh, if anybody adores
the symphony as I do,

they'll certainly
recognize Ryder Bond.

Ryder Bond. The conductor
of the symphony.

Well, as a matter of fact,
I didn't recognize
Mr. Bond at first.

Isn't Mr. Bond conducting
a concert this evening?

- Prokofiev, I believe.
- Prokofiev. Yes.

I would suggest
a couple of crushed aspirin
into a bowl of warm milk.

- Oh, thank you.
- Yes, of course,
Mrs. Sherman.

A tie-in with Ryder Bond,

wunderkind
of the musical world?

Maybe there was
some meat on the bones
of this story after all.

But I didn't have much time.
I knew that Mayer and the cops
would be along soon.

Yes?

Carl Kolchak, I.N.S.

Could I have a moment
of your time, Mr. Bond?

George Mason, sir, is dead.

What did you say?

You're lying.
I don't believe you. Philip!

No, unfortunately it's true,
sir. He was found in his
apartment burned to death.

- It's terrible. I'm sorry.
- Philip!

- Didn't you
get the message?
- Did George check in?

No, sir, and his apartment
doesn't answer either.

- I've been trying--
- Thank you.

- How did it happen?
- The police say
it was accidental, sir.

Good Lord. Good Lord!

George was not only a good
friend, he was one of the
mainstays of my orchestra.

He was the concertmaster.

Who's going to
play the scherzo?

Why wasn't I notified?

You will be, sir.
The police are
right behind me.

I'd just like to ask you
and this charming young lady
a question, if I may.

Were you with Mr. Bond
at 6:30 this evening?

Silence, Felicia!
She only speaks French.

It's none of your business
where I've been
or at what time.

- Now, please
get out of here, Mr.--
- Kolchak.

Kolchak. If you don't
get out of here, I'm gonna
have you thrown out.

- Is everything all right?
- No!

The phone message
sounded urgent.

What phone message?

The one I gave you
in the orchestra pit
15 minutes ago.

That's impossible. I've been
in this dressing room
for two hours.

Did anybody
see you give Mr. Bond
that message?

- Yes.
The entire orchestra.
- Really?

Oh, yes! Sergeant Mayer,
I'd like you to meet
an old friend of mine.

Mr. Bond, Mr. Mayer.
Mr. Mayer, Mr. Bond.

- Where's Miss Cowles?
- Out sick.

Oh. Well, who's
gonna do the puzzles?

- Me.
-

Page one?
Oh, Carl, come on!
I need that story.

Our subscribers are waiting.
What are you daydreaming about?

That bed George Mason
died in was only charred
with the outline of a man.

That whole apartment
should have gone up in flames.
It's very puzzling.

Well, be puzzled
on your own time.
I need that story.

It's not just the way
that Mason died.
It's the way that Ryder--

- Oh, come on! Get on it!
- All right! I'll get on it!

It's a little hard
to get excited about
a small-time homeowner fraud.

"Small-time"?
You'd feel a lot differently
if you had your own home...

and you were made promises,

and you had to sign blank
contracts, and you wound up
with half-finished work.

You got taken.

What is it? Storm windows?
Roofing? Aluminum siding?

- What?
- Fumigating.

Fumigating!

Oh, come on, Carl.
Write the story. Forget
about Mason and Ryder Bond.

Forget about Ryder Bond?

You might as well
forget about Bach,
Beethoven and Bernstein.

Well, them
I've forgotten about.

But Ryder Bond's on
a witness statement. He was seen
leaving Mason's apartment.

If we have a story
connected with Bond, remember,
I have a musical background.

- I play the French horn.
- Yeah, well, I would have
guessed that.

Get out and get
that material
right after lunch.

- For now, write!
- Write.

- Write.
- Write.

Smite. Tight.

Blight?

September 8,
Patterson Towers Apartments.

Miss Felicia Porter,
Sorbonne graduate and
international music groupie,

stepped out
to improve her tan.

The sun that day was hot,
but not hot enough to cause
what eventually happened.

Ryder?

Did you know Miss Porter
personally?

Just saw her around.

She lived a few floors
below us.

We were coming up here
for a swim when we--

when we heard--

Screams. It was awful.
I was in 'Nam, and I never
saw anything that bad.

Was she completely burned
when you got out here?

Was there ever any talk
about Miss Porter, like
excessive drinking or anything?

You police always think
the worst of people. I never
heard anything like that.

It's just that
she did smoke.

It is possible
when she dropped the match
in the chaise,

she could have been
too drunk to get up
when the fire started.

Do you know anybody else
that saw the fire,
anybody else I can talk to?

What's the problem?
Is there someone else?

Well, when we first
ran out here...

Janis thought she saw a man
standing over there, but--

It was just a flash.

I guess it was my nerves.
I mean, how could he
have gotten off the roof?

- What do you mean, a flash?
- Like out of the corner
of your eye.

He was there,
and then gone.

What did he look like?

It was an optical illusion.
I don't know.

All right, Kolchak.
You wanna report? Report.

You wanna do police work,
apply to the academy.

Was he about 40,
handsome, had a beard,
distinguished-looking?

Yes, I guess
he might have been.

All right, that's it.
Harmel, Mr. Kolchak is
going downstairs. Help him.

- I got every right to be here.
- But not to interfere
with police work.

What are we saying here?

That Felicia Porter
dropped a match on this cushion
and it burst into flames?

- That's right.
- Why didn't the entire
cushion go up in flame?

Why didn't it burn?
The only thing that's burned
is where the body was touching.

If we think there's any reason
to worry about that,
we'll ask the arson squad.

- Well, start worrying.
There's reason.
- Harmel, get him out of here.

You're a 20-year veteran,
Kolchak. What is the matter
with your head?

It's a smear.

You're practically
accusing a man of murder.

Ryder Bond, almost a god
to some of the wealthiest, most
powerful people in Chicago.

God? I didn't
think about that.

Maybe he's starting those fires
by hurling thunderbolts.

That is a rotten thing
to say. Bond is a consummate
artist, a genius.

All right, Ron,
fine, fine.

This isn't your story.
Where's your assigned story?

- Nobody told you
to write these slanders!
- That's right.

Can we please
hold this hysteria
down to a fever pitch?

We could be crushed
like bugs for printing
these allegations.

"After perfunctory
questioning by police,

Mr. Bond was allowed to
leave the recording studio
and return to his home."

"Perfunctory"? "Allowed"?

Should they beat the
conductor of the Great Lakes
Symphony with rubber hoses?

He was seen
at two scenes of the accident
by eyewitnesses.

Other eyewitnesses,
reliable ones,

have stated repeatedly that Bond
was with them when
the accidents happened.

And one eyewitness,
Miss Felicia Porter,

is no longer felicitous,
nor is she alive.

She is currently
inhabiting an urn.

That is an allegation
of murder,
which implies motive!

In a case where the police
have just about ruled out
foul play.

Well, why don't they rule
something in? That's all
I'm asking. That's all I want!

- That's all you were asking.
- Now, wait--

Now, just look!

If we have to
devote any time to
these tragic burnings,

I'll have Ron write up
some profiles,
eulogies on the victims.

- I have something on file.
- Yes, but short and sweet,
Updyke.

Don't hand me any
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

- Now, just one minute, Tony--
- Kolchak--

When you get back
to the swindle
and fraud stories,

write about
how you're employed here,

which is one of
the biggest swindles
in memory!

You listen--

What did you say,
Kolchak?

Where are you going,
Kolchak?

Kolchak, come back here!

Now, that item will never see
the inside of the neighborhood
department store.

Too bad, too,
because it's a nice idea.
Comes already trimmed.

But if you happen to be
standing too close when
the spark hits,

then it trims your eyebrows.

Mr. Cardinale,
what would it take...

to completely burn up
a human body...

in, oh, say,
10, 15 seconds?

I suppose
a couple thousand degrees.

Is there a substance...

that a person could
get their hands on...

that could completely
burn up a human being in that
length of time, that quickly?

Well, the army has a few
things that could set fire
to the ice in your highball.

What are they?

What they are is not
available to the public.

- For obvious reasons.
- But a person could get them?

The kind of burning
that you're talking about,

sounds to me
like somebody might--

just might have some kind
of a military chemical.

If, like you say,
the body is burnt but
the surroundings are not,

either somebody
does have some kind of
super hotfoot juice,

or something's happening
that I don't know about.

- But--
- And I would like to
know about that.

September 9, 5:30 p.m.

I was faced with two equally
unpleasant possibilities.

One, some sort of horrible
freak note was being played
in the brain of Ryder Bond...

and he was setting fire
to his fellow man,

or two, to paraphrase
Mr. Cardinale,

something inexplicable
was happening that perhaps

I really did want
to know about.

Unfortunately, a reporter
is paid to find out things...

whether he wants
to know about them or not.

As I was to be taught
once again, there are nicer
ways to make a living.

Far nicer.

I'd come to confront
Mr. Bond because no one
else seemed to want to.

He was slated to give
a matinee concert...

but was now unaccountably
making an unscheduled
appearance...

in the car
of Philip Randolf Rourke,

treasurer and business
manager of the Great Lakes
Symphony Association.

Get under the hood!
There's two men
trapped inside of there!

- Listen--
- Please, sir, move along.

- Ryder Bond was in that car!
- He's lucky he's not
in it now.

George Mason, Felicia Porter,
and now Philip Rourke--

the third flame
in a steadily growing,
grisly candelabra.

I fully expected
to find a fourth,

but there was absolutely
no trace of Ryder Bond
in that vehicle.

I was starting to think
I shouldn't have canceled
my appointment...

with the eye doctor.

Obviously you've got
every right to slam
the door in my face.

But there are some questions
that nobody seems to want
to answer, or even ask.

Well, first let me say...

how sorry I am
about Miss Porter.

It's a tragedy, a terrible,
terrible tragedy.

I'm sure that words can't
really express the grief
that you must feel.

Yes.

Well, I'm glad to see
that you are maintaining
your equanimity.

Last time we met
you seemed very upset,

with even less reason
than you have now.

Mr. Bond?

Mr. Bond?

Sir?

The academicians at the
university smiled tolerantly...

when I told them
my problems.

They said perhaps I thought
I had seen a doppelgaaäanger,

the destructive ghost
of someone dead...

who takes on the appearance
of one who is alive--

Ryder Bond, in this case.

They recommended
a good psychoanalyst...

and gave me a mass of books
to read on the subject.

Obviously, none of
the professors had ever seen
a room explode around them...

for no earthly reason.

Books are fine if you want
to know the sociological
reasons for legends...

or a lot of other
intellectual double-talk,

but there's nothing like
a girl with the instincts
of a Gypsy.

In fact, there's nothing
quite like a Gypsy girl.

Yes, yes, you should definitely
redo the dining room.

But not in gold. In blue.

And you should stay
with traditional furniture.

However, should
your path cross that
of a lying reporter,

don't tell him anything,

particularly
about any robberies
you may have seen.

He will quote you...

and then, mysteriously,
police will arrive
at your door.

Thank you.

- Thank you.
- I didn't understand
any of that.

Maria, I told you I cut
that out of the article,

but my bureau chief
put it back in.

You've got
your problems, I've got mine.
Look at these tea stains.

- I got you off the hook
with the cops, didn't I?
- Yes.

Yeah. Now I've come
to ask you a favor in return.

I think I'm tangled up
with a ghost. I think that
the ghost is trying to kill me.

And from what I've read,

I understand--
well, I think--

Don't laugh.

I think it's a doppelgaaäanger.

- She laughed.
- I can't help it.
I'm sorry. It's funny.

I'm really serious.
Do you know anything
about these kind of things?

Oh, well, it's
a malicious and lost spirit
of a dead person...

who's trying to wear down
a living human being
and take over his body,

someone he envies and--

What spirit would envy you?

No, no, it's not me, it's--
Well, it's somebody else.

Oh, so you started
nosing around, and now
it wants to kill you.

That's what I want to
find out. It's that true?
I mean, is it possible?

You know, Kolchak,
I have a friend.
He's a doctor.

Yeah?

And Lou's always
complaining because
his friends want free advice.

Gypsies have
the same problem.

Aw, Maria.

You're really turning into
a very commercial person.

You know that?

Well, anyway, my grandmother
had another name
for that kind of a spirit.

But in essence it's
the same thing. She claimed
that it was anyway.

But then again,
she claimed that tight pants
made someone sterile.

You haven't been sleeping,
have you?

No, I've been
too terrified.

So-- So, what they say
in the books is true, huh?

Well, the spirit can only take
final control of your friend's
body when he goes to sleep.

And it'll kill you too
the minute you doze off.

You mean, the moment
that I go to sleep
I'm a dead man?

Absolutely... I think.

That's terrific.
I'm exhausted right now.

Well, listen,

a spirit can't operate
on sanctified ground, right?

Then go find yourself
a church and flake out.

That's great. I never
would have thought of that.

What do I do afterwards?
How do I get rid of
this doppelgaaäanger?

- How do I eliminate him?
- I don't really know.

You have to do something
about finding out
whose spirit it is.

You have to get
the earthly remains.

You have to try
to force the body
and the soul together--

Don't be vague, Maria.
I gotta know specifically,
exactly.

Well I don't know exactly.
I'd have to ask
my grandmother.

- Well?
- My grandmother's living in
a nursing home in Winnetka.

When she starts talking,
she never lets go.

I'll have to hear about
her bunions
and her stomach and--

Maria, will you just
go up and ask her?
I'll come back.

All right. For $200.

Two hundred doll--

Maria, all I've got
is five bucks for dinner.

It's just terrible to be
broke and superstitious
at the same time.

You don't trust me, right?

- All right,
I'll get it for you.
- In 48 hours.

- Or I put
a Gypsy curse on you.
- You wouldn't do that to me.

Well, I wouldn't, but my
brother Vincent would,

and Vincent hates to
be taken away
from his karate studio.

Oh. Well,
that kind of a curse
I understand.

I thought you would.

- Is that you again?

Why do you
keep disappearing?
Who are you?

Kolchak.
Who were you expecting?

I'm never quite sure
anymore.

I seem to have developed
a rather exotic form
of schizophrenia.

I keep seeing myself.

I'm never really sure
it's me.

Well, I'm not sure
it's you either.

I'm really not sure whether
I'm speaking to Mr. Bond
or to the doppelgaaäanger.

The doppelgaaäanger?

It's a ghost
who wants to take over
your body, Mr. Bond.

Oh, really?
How charming.

I prefer that to madness.

Now, how do I get it
over with?

That's very simple.
You simply go to sleep.

Splendid idea!

Listen, I couldn't sleep
all last night thinking
about Felicia and Mason.

They were your closest friends.
The doppelgaaäanger killed them.

- And Chopin is gonna
play his concerto tonight.
- I'm very serious.

It's going to take over
your body and soul
the moment you fall asleep.

It comes from the song
of the same name.

- This is ridiculous.
- Ridiculous? Okay.

Would you like a list
of people...

that went up
with so-called...

instantaneous--
spontaneous combustion?

Ottawa, Illinois.
A man and a woman
burned up in 1885.

- That was eons ago.
Can you prove it?
- You want some later dates?

Sure. How about this one?
Level Cross,
North Carolina, 1953.

Hmm?
Two of them in 1956.

One in Venetia, California,
and one in Honolulu.

1959. Oh, that was
a very good year.

One in Grand Rapids, Michigan,
and another one in 1959,

right over here in
Rockford, Illinois.

All of them-- Pffht!
Gone.

And you're doing this
all for a newspaper story.

Well, partly.
I'm really more interested
in saving my own skin.

I have a feeling
that doppelgaaäanger
is hanging around here...

and knows
that I'm helping you.

- Oh, really?
- Really.

Finally, Bond realized
I was telling the truth...

and agreed to let me
take him to a place...

where he could
sleep in safety.

On the way there
we went over
his every move...

the day the doppelgaaäanger
killed Mason.

Bond remembered
cutting through
the funeral procession...

on the way to rehearsal.

It was there the spirit
latched onto him.

Going north on Lake Shore Drive
takes you to only one cemetery.

Possibly I could find out
who was buried there that day.

"Sierra Nevada."

Nevada. "N." "M."

What a mess.

What are you doing?

I have been slaving
over those drawers trying to
get them in systematic order.

- Who told you to?
- What are you looking for?

- Markoff. Markoff!
- Mark off what?

Frankie Markoff.

He was listed as having been
buried by the Old Park Cemetery
about the third of this month,

along with a few
other bodies.

"D" for death,
"O" for obituaries.

"For obituaries."
Don't you read
the Teletype, Uptight?

There was an article
in there about his death,
some gangland hit.

Try "M" for murder,
"H" for homicide.

Mind if I start with "A"
all over again?

Uh-huh-- Aha!

Franklin Markoff. Yeah.

"Gunned down.

No witnesses.
Convicted arsonist."

Arsonist.

- "A" for arson?
- Mm-hmm.

Uptight, have you never heard
of the Dewey decimal system?

Frankie was a good provider,

but you couldn't say
he was exactly
burning with ambition.

Do you know what your
husband did for a living,
Mrs. Markoff?

He never said.

Frankie was what they
call a private person.

I never really
got to know him too well.

- How long
were you married to him?
- Six years.

Frankie did night work,
and I saw him mostly
when he was lying in bed.

You can't get to
know a person like that.

He didn't talk a lot.

I don't think
he had anything to say.

Did he have any interests
that you know of?

- One.
- His son.

No, music.

Frankie loved music.

Classy music.
He went to concerts.

He even played
in a band once.

- Really?
- Mm-hmm.

They called themselves
the Trustees. He was
with them five years.

You wanna see his horn?

Anyways, a couple of
times at night, when he was
playing his records real loud,

I looked in
and saw him standing
in the room,

waving a stick in the air
like he was leading a band.

Thank you very much,
Mrs. Markoff.
You've been very helpful.

There's not much to tell.
I'm sorry Frankie
wasn't more exciting.

Oh, he's exciting,
all right.

Uh--

Oh!

I had to see the place where
Frankie Markoff was murdered.

If Markoff were the
doppelgaaäanger, this was the
last place he could remember.

Before this, in place or time,
he had no identity.

I knew Frankie Markoff.
I been all over it
with the cops.

- You a cop?
- Do I look like a cop?
Do I?

- I'm a reporter.
- That's not much
of an improvement.

- Were you here the night
that Frankie was murdered?
- Me?

I was having dinner
over to my sister's, chief.

- Then who was
watching the store?
- Ah, tragic about Frankie.

He was the Jim Thorpe
of pinball.

He could murder any game.

Aces High, Swinger,
Gridiron--

I mean, the man had fingers
like a flipper.

I don't want to know
who killed him. I'm not
interested in that at all.

All I want to know is
exactly where it happened.

That's all I want to know.

Well...

there goes dinner.

Okay. Now...

the bullets hit him
right over here.

One, two, three.
Not a sound out of him.

Hits the machine,
falls over on the floor.

- See? You can still see
the chalk marks.
- Yeah? Where?

- Right there. See?
Chalk marks?
- Oh, yeah.

Hey. Four Square.

You know, it was
on this machine that Frankie
set the house record.

Sixty-six consecutive games.

Boy, it's ironic.

Here today,
tilt tomorrow.

Jackpot.

I'll be more than happy to loan
you some money, Mr. Kolchak,
no questions asked.

I need it.
I need it today.

Otherwise, some Gypsy gentlemen
are going to use my kidneys
as kettledrums.

Alcohol or gambling?
My cousin Ernest could be
of a great help and comfort.

Thank you, Monique,
but I don't need
the services of a rabbi.

I bought some information,
and I have to pay for it.

Could you take this
to Miss Marian H-- Mary--
Mar-- Maria Hargrove...

at the Little Romany Tearoom
for me, huh?

Little Romany Tearoom?

Good morning, Monique.

- Good morning, Mr. Vincenzo.
Good morning, Ron.
- Good morning.

Wouldn't it behoove you
to wear some fresh clothes
when you come in here?

You do represent I.N.S.
before the public, you know.

- What are you doing
in my desk?

- Where are your caffeine pills,
Ron?

I've been up for
52 hours straight, and if
I nod off I'm a dead man.

Tequila, wasn't it?

I once overdid it
at a fraternity party.
Same thing happened to me.

Terrible nightmares
when I fell asleep.

- Pills, Ron!
- Upper right-hand drawer.

Upper right-hand--
Oh, yes.

- Kolchak!

I've never seen you
like this before.

Pick him up.
What's the matter?
You sick?

Shall we call a doctor?

I've been marked for death
by the doppelgaaäanger.

Unless I can get the ghost
back into the body,
I'm gonna burn up.

- He does have
a temperature.
- What's a doppelgaaäanger?

What body?
What are you talking about?

Frankie Markoff,
the doppelgaaäanger.

Carl, go home
and get some sleep.

No, I can't go home, Tony.
I can't.

Listen, Tony,
this is an incredible story.

- If something happens to me--
- Carl, forget all this.

Forget all the pressures.
Just go home
and get some sleep.

I can't go home, Tony.

All right, come in
the office, lie down on
the sofa, get some rest...

get some sleep,
and then you can finish up
the swindle series.

- I talked to a Gypsy lady
this morning-- last night.
- Get his feet.

She told me the doppelgaaäanger
is going to take over
Bond's body and kill me.

If he believes in this,
then perhaps he does
need a little help.

- You want to help me, Ron?
- Yes, Carl, I do.

Oh, Ron,
that's terrific of you.

You can come out tonight and
help me dig up Frankie Markoff's
body from the graveyard.

Nobody's going
to the cemetery
to dig up any body.

Now you just get some sleep.

That's the only
way we're gonna be able
to save Ryder Bond.

- Would you like me
to make some fresh--
- Shh!

Yes? Hello.

Oh, uh, no, Father,
you can't talk to him
right now.

Yes! Yes!

I have got to talk to him.

Hello, Father.

What?

No! I'll be right there.

Carl? Kolchak!

What happened
to the petty cash?

Ryder,
listen to me carefully.

I'm your doctor.

We've been through
difficult things before,
but we've done them together...

by being reasonable,
by listening to reason.

You are near complete
physical exhaustion.

You've been hallucinating.

Well, then we're both having
the same hallucinations.

Now, you're not
taking him anywhere
he doesn't want to go.

Oh, God.

There he is again.
He keeps staring at me.

He makes noises.
He won't let me sleep.

Oh, Lord, Lord,
he's creeping into my skin.

Mr. Bond is not well.

If you try to keep him here,
you could be in legal jeopardy.

- Uh-huh. You got a warrant
for his arrest?
- No.

- Did he create
any kind of a crime?
- No.

If they take you outta here,
they're gonna put you
in a hospital.

Then they're gonna give you
a sedative. You know
what that means?

That's just
what he's waiting for.

Come on, Kolchak.
Who's waiting?

- For what?
- A doppel--

- Forget it.
- Nothing. More delusions.

He is just exhausted.
He needs a confined rest.

Confined rest.
You hear that?

You hear that?
Now make up your mind.

Come to a decision.

I'm going to stay.

- Sergeant,
can't you do something?
- I'm sorry, Doctor.

If he doesn't want to go,
there's nothing we can do.

Very well.

I'll be available when
you've thought this out,
Ryder.

Let's go.

Turn around.
Don't look at it no more.
Don't look at it.

Just lie down
and go to sleep.

Lie down and sleep.

It's all right.
Sleep. Go to sleep.
Go to sleep.

I wasn't getting any sleep,
but at least Ryder was.

By the time it was dark,
I could barely keep my eyes
open, and I had a lot to do.

Grave robbery and
body snatching are still
punishable crimes in Chicago,

so I had to do it by myself.

Get an order
to exhume Markoff
from the coroner's office?

Not with what I had in mind.

Finally I had
gotten down to the casket.

Listen to me, Markoff.

This is your body here.
You are dead.

You are not Ryder Bond.
You will never be
Ryder Bond.

Leave Ryder Bond alone.

Return to your own body.

Leave Ryder Bond alone!

Return to your body!

Return to your body,
Markoff!

And rest in peace
forevermore!

Now, wait a minute! I got
nothing to do with that
in there! Believe me!

Hey!
Give me a hand here!

Well, at least I won't
have to worry about
the doppelgaaäanger any longer.

He's back in his own body
and will probably be cremated.

Which is really rather sweet,
poetic justice
for Frankie Markoff.

My only worry now is
to find Tony Vincenzo
to try to raise bail.

They've got me hooked on
some stupid arson charge.

But it's Tony's
night to play cards,
and I don't know where he is.

So I think I'll just spend
a nice, good night's sleep--

in the slammer.