Crampton, Page 2

  He takes the mannequin head out of the crate and places it on the table.

  SECTION CHIEF

  Does anybody know what this is?

  FBI AGENT #1

  It's a head.

  SECTION CHIEF

  Wrong. It is somebody's way of saying "fuck you" to the FBI. Until we have that person in custody, this is the only case on your desks. The director wants 100 percent commitment on this one. Everything else can wait.

  A few grumbles from the agents.

  SECTION CHIEF

  Shut up. Here's where we stand so far. The security tapes are useless--looks like somebody tampered with the cameras so they'd malfunction, start picking up television signals--so we've got no idea what the guy looks like. Ballistics has the gun, and forensics has the rest of this...

  He taps the mannequin head.

  SECTION CHIEF

  We should hear something back from them within the hour. In the meantime, I want you to work in teams of two. Until we have a better idea what we're dealing with, we're going to look at this thing from every possible angle. Your individual supervisors will give you your orders. Remember--there are no shit jobs. Anything might get us a lead. Any questions?

  No hands go up.

  SECTION CHIEF

  Good. One last thing. The media is already halfway up our ass. In about an hour the director will issue a statement. During the course of this statement he will say that the Bureau has not ruled out the possibility that Agent Johnson's murder was a terrorist act.

  BRADY

  (to himself; skeptically)

  Sure, why not.

  SECTION CHIEF

  Does anyone here have a better explanation for what happened this morning?

  The agents remain silent.

  SECTION CHIEF

  Right. Now, get back to your divisions.

  The agents start getting up and talking loudly to each other. Brady gets out of his chair.

  SECTION CHIEF

  Agent Wells, can I see you for a second?

  BRADY

  What's up, Chief?

  SECTION CHIEF

  You seen anything like this before?

  BRADY

  No. The fraud cases I usually handle, they're all about profit. This seems more like a revenge deal. There's no profit in revenge.

  SECTION CHIEF

  How about the disappearing act? You deal with people who know about that kind of thing, right?

  BRADY

  Yeah, I was thinking about that, too. But those guys ... when they're gone, they're gone--zap. No little mementos.

  SECTION CHIEF

  Follow up on it anyway. I already talked to your supervisor. You'll report back to me directly.

  BRADY

  No problem.

  Brady turns to go.

  SECTION CHIEF

  Hang on. Teams of two, remember?

  BRADY

  What?

  SECTION CHIEF points to a chair in the third row, where Helen is sitting.

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - HALLWAY

  Brady walking down the hall, fuming. Helen is a step behind, matching his pace.

  HELEN

  Is this going to be a problem for you?

  BRADY

  No.

  HELEN

  Then what's your damage?

  BRADY

  (stopping short)

  My "damage?" My "damage" is that I've been slaving away working bunco jobs for five years, and this is what it gets me--a rinky-dink assignment with a newbie partner.

  HELEN

  Gee, Agent Titanic, sorry the murder of another FBI agent didn't help your career more.

  (she starts walking again, leaving Brady behind)

  Asshole.

  She exits through a door marked "GARAGE". Brady follows.

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - PARKING GARAGE

  Helen steps up to a CLERK's window.

  HELEN

  Sweeten, badge number 3293-2211. Need a car.

  CLERK

  Hang on.

  Brady comes through the door.

  BRADY

  Who the hell are you, anyway?

  HELEN

  What does that mean?

  BRADY

  It means do you know what you're doing, or do I have to worry that you're going to get your gun caught on your purse and accidentally shoot me.

  HELEN

  It won't be accidentally.

  The clerk passes Helen a set of keys.

  CLERK

  B-64.

  HELEN

  Thank you.

  She walks up the ramp. Again, Brady follows.

  HELEN

  Look, Agent ... what's your name again?

  BRADY

  Brady Wells.

  HELEN

  ... Agent Wells, I put up with this FBI boys club bullshit for seven years down in Florida, and I'll tell you, southerners are a lot better at it than you. So do us both a favor and drop it.

  They reach a parking spot marked "B-64," where a nondescript sedan is parked. She tosses him the keys.

  HELEN

  Here. Make yourself useful.

  He snatches them out of the air.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. WASHINGTON D.C. - DAY

  The FBI car cruises through downtown Washington.

  INT. CAR - DAY

  Brady driving, Helen in the passenger's seat, uncomfortable silence between them. Brady's chewing his bottom lip, trying to decide whether or not to try to be friendly to this woman. Finally...

  BRADY

  So, Florida, huh?

  HELEN

  Yes.

  BRADY

  Whereabouts?

  HELEN

  Tampa.

  BRADY

  Oh, yeah. Lot of gangs around there. The average age is, what, around seventy-eight? Why do they need a Bureau shop? A rash of denture thefts?

  HELEN

  Every year, American senior citizens are defrauded of over fifty million dollars. Insurance cons. Phantom stocks. Counterfeit lottery tickets. The St. Petersburg area offers a high concentration of financially secure men and women trying to enjoy their golden years. Awfully tempting for scam runners.

  BRADY

  Well, Agent Sweeten, welcome to our nation's capital. We've got your kidnapping, your extortion, your crooked congressmen, your international spies, your violent whackos both foreign and domestic, real terrorism, and let's not forget the most powerful man in the world driving around town like a big-ass bullseye. So, if we see any little old ladies getting rolled for their bingo money, I'll let you take point. Otherwise, Just follow my lead.

  HELEN

  Are you always such a prick?

  BRADY

  Pretty much.

  EXT. JOEY'S GAME ROOM - DAY

  The FBI sedan stops in front of a divey bar on a divey street.

  INT. CAR

  Brady puts it in "park."

  BRADY

  Here's the deal. This bar ... it's a regular hangout for cons. Long con specialists. I'm talking guys who will string a mark along for years before they move, then bleed him dry and be gone before anyone knows it happened. Real stonefaced motherfuckers.

  HELEN

  What, you don't do anything about this?

  BRADY

  This isn't one of your lottery swindles, Sweeten. These guys are like fucking groundhogs--they stick their heads out maybe once, and if they see a shadow they vanish. There was this investigation a few years ago--I managed to pick up a couple of them, but the bastards covered their trail so deep we couldn't make it stick. I kind of got to know them during the case. They're really not that bad ... you know, for thieves. I occasionally come to them for advice in situations like these.

  HELEN

  So they're snitches?

  BRADY

  Yes.

  HELEN

  Why don't you Just come out and say that? Jesus...

  BRADY

  The point is, despite our relationship, the g
uys in here can he a little jumpy, so just ... play it cool.

  INT. JOEY'S GAME ROOM

  The place is small but clean--a bar, a row of booths, a pool table, and a door that leads to a back room. At the bar, a DARK-HAIRED MAN is talking to a BLOND WOMAN.

  Brady leads Helen inside, making a beeline for the booths. The only other people in the place are sitting at one of the booths; the SNITCHES--one very tall with a ponytail, the other rather short--and two of their CON-MAN BUDDIES.

  BIG SNITCH

  (laughing, to CON BUDDIES)

  ... and the guy says--this is the best part--the guy says, "Can I give you a ride to the airport?" And I say, "Yeah, but can we swing by the bank first?"

  (the CON BUDDIES laugh)

  ... So, he's waiting outside while I empty out his bank account. And he gets a parking ticket! (now they're laughing so hard they're crying) All the rest of the ride, he's telling me about how bad his day is, and I'm thinking, "Buddy, you don't even know."

  Brady and Helen stand next to the booth. The big snitch stops laughing.

  BIG SNITCH

  Shh. It's the Ed-fays.

  The other con artists clam up fast and excuse themselves. Brady slides into the booth next to the little snitch.

  BRADY

  Good morning, gentlemen.

  BIG SNITCH

  Blow me, g-man.

  (to LITTLE SNITCH)

  You--don't say anything.

  The little snitch makes a zipping motion across his lips.

  HELEN

  You're pretty snippy for a snitch.

  The snitches notice her for the first time.

  BIG SNITCH

  We prefer the epithet "paid informant" ... accent on "paid."

  (to BRADY)

  Who is this person? It's not bad enough you make this unannounced appearance on our home turf, you've gotta bring a stranger with you?

  BRADY

  We're investigating a case that touches upon your area of expertise.

  BIG SNITCH

  Oh yeah? Whoever got dipped deserved it. Fool and his money and all that.

  BRADY

  Not a con--a murder.

  BIG SNITCH

  Hey ... this is that thing that happened at FBI headquarters this morning, isn't it?

  HELEN

  How did you hear about that? There hasn't been an official press release yet.

  The little snitch is about to reply, hut the big snitch puts his hand up to stop him.

  BIG SNITCH

  Hey! Dummy up!

  (to HELEN)

  Well, lady, When you belong to the social circle that we do, you find that information can be a valuable asset. Setting that information in advance of your competition is the name of the game. Even a matter of a few hours can make the difference between first place and second place. And in this business, there is no prize for second place.

  Brady takes a second to process this line of bullshit.

  BRADY

  You got it off the Internet.

  BIG SNITCH

  The point is that we already got the skinny on this. Some kind of terrorist thing. Not exactly our area of expertise.

  BRADY

  This particular shooter, terrorist, whatever ... he pulled a fancy disappearing act on us.

  The snitches are suddenly very interested.

  BIG SNITCH

  Ahhh. Now this little visit is beginning to make sense. So, how did he do it? Was there an obvious escape route? You know, trapdoor, ceiling tile, what have you? Did he use flash powder? Smoke bomb?

  Helen gives Brady a "what the fuck?" look.

  BRADY

  (to HELEN)

  Before they turned to the dark side, our friends here were pretty decent magicians.

  (to SNITCHES)

  You ought to think about going back to your legitimate profession.

  BIG SNITCH

  Are you kidding? So back to playing cups-and-balls for a bunch of gape-mouthed tourists? Fuck that. There's no pride in that gig--and more importantly, no money.

  BRADY

  What about David Copperfield? That guy's loaded.

  BIG SNITCH

  (getting pissed)

  You always bring up David Copperfield, like you've got some kind of a hard-on for the guy. He's a hack! We were ten times the magicians that guy is! Here ...

  The snitches grab a salt shaker, a pepper shaker, and a bottle of ketchup and arrange them on the table.

  BIG SNITCH

  ... want to know how he made the Statue of Liberty disappear? Say you're the salt, the camera is the pepper, and the ketchup is the Statue of Liberty--

  HELEN

  Can we get back to the shooter?

  The snitches reluctantly replace the condiments.

  BIG SNITCH

  Right. So, what was his gimmick?

  BRADY

  No idea. One second he's there, the next he's all over the place, just a bunch of parts.

  BIG SNITCH

  All over the place--what does that mean?

  Brady and Helen look at each other, silently deciding how much they want to tell these con men. They come to a conclusion.

  HELEN

  He made it appear that he turned into a mannequin in the middle of a room full of armed FBI agents.

  The snitches exchange ominous looks. The little snitch cups his hands over his ears like he doesn't want to hear any more.

  BIG SNITCH

  Sorry. Can't help you.

  BRADY

  No help, no money.

  BIG SNITCH

  No amount of money is worth it, my friend.

  The two snitches slide out of the booth and stand.

  BRADY

  Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the hell is this? I can't believe you're playing us.

  BIG SNITCH

  (leaning close to BRADY)

  You have no idea what it means to be played. Now, if you'll excuse us, we're late for a poker game.

  They turn to leave.

  BRADY

  Oh, come on! You can't leave me with nothing!

  The snitches pause. The big snitch turns around.

  BIG SNITCH

  This agent who got killed--you say he was shot?

  HELEN

  That's right.

  BIG SNITCH

  Check again.

  They join the dark-haired man and the blond woman at the bar, then go through the door to the back room.

  CUT TO:

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS

  Brady and Helen walking down a hallway, in a hurry.

  HELEN

  We're going to be late.

  BRADY

  I know.

  Ahead, the door to the briefing room opens and a bunch of FBI agents start filing out. Whatever meeting Brady and Helen were going to, they missed it.

  BRADY

  Shit!

  The exiting agents are all talking in low tones, a general air of incredulity over them. Brady grabs one by the arm.

  BRADY

  What's the deal?

  FBI AGENT

  It's the goddamnest thing I've ever heard.

  He breaks away, leaving Brady behind.

  HELEN

  Well, that helps.

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - BRIEFING ROOM

  Besides the few straggling agents who are slow to leave, the SECTION CHIEF is the only one in the room. He sees Brady and points to his watch.

  BRADY

  Yeah, yeah, I know.

  SECTION CHIEF

  Don't give me "I know." This is the wrong day to piss me off, Wells. The director wants results, and he doesn't care how he gets them. You know what that means? It means I've got carte blanche to kick your ass up and down the Potomac if I think it'll get this case wrapped up. Since you're late, I'll give you the short version. The autopsy on Johnson came up inconclusive, so we're back to square one.

  BRADY

  Inconclusive? The guy was shot at point blank range. Isn't that about as conclusive as they
get?

  SECTION CHIEF

  Tell it to the medical examiner--he's expecting you ... five minutes ago.

  INT. MEDICAL EXAMINER'S OFFICE

  CU ON A HUMAN EYEBALL - the eyelid's held open by gloved fingers. A small but bright light shines into the eye. The pupil contracts. The light moves away. The pupil dilates.

  OFFICE

  Larry Johnson's body is laid out on an examining table, a sheet pulled up to its shoulders. The MEDICAL EXAMINER--an efficient, soft-spoken old pro--leans over the body, examining it with a penlight.

  HELEN

  Should his eye be doing that?

  MEDICAL EXAMINER

  No, it should not. There is no heartbeat, no activity in the brain ... flat lines all around.

  Brady and Helen watch as the medical examiner does the trick with the light a few more times.

  HELEN

  That's really messed up.

  MEDICAL EXAMINER

  Yes, it is. But then, that's true about a lot of aspects of this case.

  BRADY

  How do you mean?

  MEDICAL EXAMINER

  The cause of death, for one thing.

  BRADY

  We were told the results were inconclusive.

  MEDICAL EXAMINER

  Oh, no. The results were not inconclusive. They were just somewhat...

  HELEN

  Messed up.

  MEDICAL EXAMINER

  Exactly.

  He takes a clipboard and reads from the official report.

  MEDICAL EXAMINER

  Lawrence Johnson, Caucasian male, age forty-eight. Occupation: senior detective, Federal Bureau of Investigation, blah blah blah. Cause of death: severe myocardial infarction precipitated by liberation of aortic emboli.

  (he drops the clipboard)

  Heart attack.

  HELEN

  What?

  BRADY

  What about the gunshot wounds?

  MEDICAL EXAMINER

  See for yourself.

  The medical examiner pulls the sheet down, exposing Larry Johnson's torso. Apart from a Y-shaped incision up the middle of the chest and abdomen, there isn't a mark on him.

  BRADY

  Well, fuck me.

  MEDICAL EXAMINER

  No entry wounds. No exit wounds. No bullets found inside or in proximity to the body of the deceased.

  HELEN

  So, a guy empties a forty-four at this man, and he dies of a plain old heart attack.