"Vital Link"
Written by: Phil Turner, Mitch Nozka, and CoronetBlue — Director: Lyracist
Producer(s): Lea Ames, CoronetBlue — Post Production: Brixius — Creator: Roy Huggins
DETROIT - HIGH-RISE OFFICES OF PALAZZOLO IMPORTS - DAY
Piped-in music plays in the background, phones can be heard ringing and workers are shuffling about between
offices. At the front desk a harried young receptionist—most likely someone's nephew—is struggling to field multiple
calls. The elevator doors open and Ben Charnquist enters. Charnquist's chin is grizzled with five-o'clock shadow and
his clothes appear to have been slept in. The receptionist looks up, helplessly lost, and Charnquist casts him a look of
contempt. The camera follows as the One-Armed Man proceeds purposefully on down the corridorto the executive
suite. He stops at a door with a brass plate reading "Vincent Palazzolo, CEO". Charnquist smiles to himself and goes
right in.
A woman with an upswept hairdo is seated at a desk painting her long fingernails red while carrying on a phone
conversation. A name plaque beside a vase of flowers on her desk identifies her as "Madeleine DeCaprio, Executive
Secretary". She looks with distaste at Charnquist's unkempt appearance before returning her attention to her caller.
"No, sir, Mr. Palazzolo left no further instructions, but I'll pass on your request," says DeCaprio, the receiver gripped
precariously between her neck and shoulder. She checks an appointment book while Charnquist shifts his weight
impatiently. "That's right, Monday... Yes... And thank you for doing business with Palazzolo Imports." DeCaprio hangs
up, then takes her time twisting the cap back onto the bottle of nail polish before turning to Charnquist.
"How may we help you today?" she asks, her tone chilly.
"You tell Palazzolo his old friend Ben is here to see him," Charnquist says with a reptilian smile, giving her a wink.
The secretary ignores his suggestive behavior and picks up a message pad. "Mr. Palazzolo is in conference, may I take
a message?" she asks officiously.
"That's alright, honey," Charnquist answers, his voice raspy, "I'd prefer to give it to him myself."
He puts his hand in his pocket and heads for the large oak door behind her.
Alarmed, DeCaprio calls after him, "Sir! You can't go in there!" Charnquist continues, unheeding. "Sir, wait—Mr.
Palazzolo can't see you right now!"
Charnquist listens at the door. "I don't hear a sound," he says facetiously. "Conference must have finished." He
depresses the door handle.
PALAZZOLO'S OFFICE
Charnquist barges into a spacious office, kicks the door shut behind him and pulls Gagomiros' gun from his pocket.
Instantly there is a high-pitched scream from somewhere in the room. The blinds have been drawn shut and in the
semi-darkness Charnquist sees that there is no one sitting behind the large desk. He glances to his right and spies two
people on the couch—a scantily clad young woman attempting to cover herself, entangled with a similarly clad older
man.
"Vinnie!" the woman cries. "Do something!"
Palazzolo tosses her his suit jacket."
Put this on, bella mia," he instructs softly. He rises, pulling up his pants without haste.
"Now what's this all about, Ben?" he asks conciliatorily. "If there are any hard feelings
they can be resolved atthe meeting, with the whole family present."
"We're going to settle things here and now," Charnquist answers, holding the gun on Palazzolo. "Did you really think
I'd show up with Louie Q there, too? After he sent a Fed to take me down?"
"A misunderstanding, a misunderstanding," insists Palazzolo, buttoning his shirt. He motions to his girlfriend, who
scampers into the bathroom, clutching the jacket around her ample figure. "Gagomiros was playing it from both
sides of the fence—but you taught him he can't have his cake and eat it, too, eh?" Palazzolo talks smoothly, an eye on
his desk.
"A message the entire family would do well to remember," Charnquist observes menacingly, adding, "And don't
make a move toward the desk."
Palazzolo raises his hands in a placating gesture. "We're friends, Ben. Friends should not fight with friends." At that
moment the desk phone rings. "Madeleine, my secretary," Palazzolo explains, as if apologizing. "She worries... She'll
call security if I don't answer."
"Then you'll answer—nicely," Charnquist instructs, keeping the gun leveled at the older man's throat.
Calmly Palazzolo goes to the desk and pulls the cord on a green glass lamp, bathing them both in a pool of light. He
picks up the phone. "We're fine," he says into the receiver. "A little disagreement..."
Charnquist motions for him to hang up and Palazzolo complies, looking down towards a desk drawer.
"Don't try it," warns Charnquist, drawing his gun.
"Put the gun away, Ben," Palazzolo says evenly. "If you have the rest of Louie Q's shipment for me, I'll consider the
matter closed. A fair offer." Palazzolo's hand slides nearer the drawer. "As for Louie—he doesn't like the desert. It put
him out of humor." Palazzolo shrugs as if the issue were inconsequential. "So, I'll speak with him."
Charnquist is now directly behind Palazzolo with the muzzle of the gun touching his neck. "I want out," Charnquist
whispers acerbically into his ear. "Then you'll get your shipment."
Palazzolo's mood changes. He appears crestfallen. "Ben, Ben you hurt my feelings! It is disloyal of you. I can forgive
many things, as you know. But disloyalty..." His voice trails off. His fingers are just above the drawer.
Angered, Charnquist raises his hand to strike Palazzolo on the head. "Ross paid the price for disloyalty," Palazzolo
continues, effecting sadness. "I would like to spare you such misfortune, Ben." Charnquist suspends the intended
blow.
Behind Palazzolo's back, Charnquist returns the gun to his pocket and withdraws a small box. He tosses it onto the
desk. "Your shipment," he growls. As Palazzolo reaches for the box, Charnquist—more quickly—reaches for the drawer,
removing a snub-nosed revolver.
"A loan," Charnquist says, backing away towards the door. "Even among 'friends' it seems I need protection."
Palazzolo's interest is held by the contents of the box. He turns over the diamonds inside, appraising them under the lamplight.
Charnquist stops at the door, pocketing the revolver. "I'm serving notice, Vinnie," he states, his eyes glittering. "This
is the last job I do for you!"
"That can be arranged," Palazzolo responds quietly, not looking up. He hears the door click open and then close
behind the One-Armed Man.
Instantly Palazzolo grabs the phone. "Get me Security," he demands—in a different voice and demeanor altogether.
AN ELEVATOR IN THE BUILDING
Charnquist taps his foot anxiously as the elevator descends. Piped-in music plays annoyingly in the background. A
panel blinks the floor numbers in red, accompanied by a tone, "9...8...7..." The elevator slows to a stop and the doors
slide open on the seventh floor.
Charnquist flattens himself into the right front corner. He waits, perspiration beading upon his brow. No one enters.
After several moments the doors slide shut again and the elevator continues its descent. Charnquist pats his pocket
nervously. "4...3...2..." He stiffens, prepared to spring out as the elevator reaches the lobby. "1...G..." But the elevator
does not break its descent. Charnquist stares, stunned, as the "P" symbol appears and the elevator bumps to a
standstill. The doors slide open.
UNDERGROUND PARKING GARAGE
Charnquist grasps the gun in his pocket and peers out. Aside from the parked cars, the lot seems to be empty. He
steps away from the elevator. Suddenly two heavily-built men appear from around a corner. They are both armed.
"You weren't thinking of taking a ride, were you?" one of them asks nastily, approaching and brandishing his weapon.
Charnquist reacts by firing from inside his pocket, catching the men off guard. He lunges for the cover of nearby cars.
The two thugs fire in response, ducking behind the cars opposite. Charnquist runs along the row of vehicles, his
prosthetic arm flailing about. He gets off four more shots at the men chasing him and hears a shout of pain. As he
comes to the end of the lane, a black Lincoln with tinted windows veers around the corner, making straight for him.
Charnquist runs desperately down the median, the Lincoln gaining behind him.
On impulse Charnquist turns to face the oncoming vehicle. The passenger window rolls down. Charnquist fires into
the windshield. It shatters in a tinkling spray across the pavement. The Lincoln swerves and barrels into a concrete
pillar. Its hood buckles up, pinning the occupants.
CITY STREET OUTSIDE THE PARKING GARAGE
Charnquist emerges into daylight just as a city bus grinds to a halt in front of the high-rise. He runs towards it, his limp
becoming noticeable. An elderly black woman is in line ahead of him. He pushes her onto the bus and boards,
glancing over his shoulder.
The driver releases the air brakes and the bus lumbers past the building. The first thug runs out of the exit and looks
both ways down the street. Then he begins to run after the bus, trying to see the passengers through the tinted glass.
The bus soon outdistances him and he gives it up, throwing his arms into the air. The second thug appears, nursing a
bloody shoulder. Realizing they have lost Charnquist, he swings around in a motion of pain and exasperation—the
news will not sit at all well with Mr. Palazzolo.
CLEVELAND, OHIO - ROSE OF SHARON PAROCHIAL SCHOOL - SUN. AM
The children in their Sunday clothes are running about the school playground while their parents attend services.
Richard Kimble is walking along a covered walkway carrying two large bags of trash. He takes them round to the
dumpster out back, smiling at several kids on the way. As he is tidying up around the dumpster, a bell rings.
"Single file! Single file!" admonishes a regal and attractive nun. The children promptly line up under her watchful eye
and begin to file into the building.
Kimble is about to return the way he came, when he sees two long-faced boys observing the other children from the
street side of the wire fence. Curious, he comes over, pulling a new trash bag from the back pocket of his jeans.
"No Sunday school today, huh?" Kimble asks, bending and picking up litter that has blown against the fence. The
boys don't answer and begin to move off. "Now, look at that," Kimble says, extricating a corn chip bag that had been
caught between the wires. "It's still half full—someone threw away perfectly good food."
"We'll take it," the older boy says at once. "I mean, it's ours—we dropped it." Kimble senses the boy is lying, but
wonders why.
"Sure thing," he says kindly. "Catch!" He tosses the bag over the fence and both boys make a grab for it. They
rummage inside, eating hungrily.
Kimble continues to tidy the lawn, keeping within earshot. The younger child presses his face to the wire, gazing
longingly at the slide and swing set.
"I want to go down the slide, Carlos," he remarks plaintively.
"I told you before, no!" Carlos retorts.
"Please...just one time!" the boy begs.
"Come away from the fence, Ricky," Carlos orders him. "That man could be a drug dealer."
"I'm the janitor," says Kimble good naturedly. "I work here. And I think it would be okay if you want to use the
playground equipment."
Ricky's eye's light up. He squirms with enthusiasm. "Can I, can I?" he implores Carlos. Carlos is uncertain.
"Mama said not to talk to strangers," Carlos reminds his younger brother. "We should go back and wait for her." He
starts up the sidewalk, tugging Ricky along, when a transit bus coasts to a stop across the street.
"Mama!" cries Ricky expectantly.
"That's probably her now," Carlos explains to Kimble, who has been keeping pace with them on the other side of the
fence. Confident that his mother has arrived, Carlos throws caution to the winds and blurts out the truth. "We just
moved here. We move around a lot. That's why our mother went to find us a place to stay tonight." Several passen-
gers get off, but the boys' mother is not among them. Carlos kicks savagely at a broken piece of sidewalk to hide his
fears.
"I'm thirsty," whines Ricky, disappointed.
"There's a water fountain inside," suggests Kimble. "And it's much safer there than wandering around out on the
street." He studies the youngsters with concern.
A second bus comes up as the first one is departing. A frazzled looking woman, dwarfed by an out-sized shoulder
bag, steps off. She spots her children and dashes across the street to them.
"Ricky! Carlos! What are you doing here?" she demands in rapid, accented English. "I told you to wait in front of the
church by the statue of Our Lady." Seeing Kimble, she becomes even more agitated. "Have you been talking to that
man? He's a drug dealer! What has he been telling you?"
"He said I can play on the slide!" Ricky informs his mother excitedly.
"Not today," she says, exasperated. "We've got an appointment with a lady who doesn't like children. Come along."
"Did you bring us lunch?" Carlos asks hopefully.
The woman stoops and sifts through her bag. Out comes a towel, toothpaste, child's t-shirt and a plastic drinking
glass. "Here, eat this," she says, retrieving a packet of vending machine cheese and crackers. The boys groan
simultaneously.
"No complaints from you two," she reprimands. "Your Mama has been all over the city this morning and she is tired."
She repacks the bag, sighing. "Tomorrow I must do it all again."
"Mama, Mama! Tomorrow let Carlos and me go to the playground," Ricky says eagerly. "It has swings and every-
thing!"
"I'm sure you'd be welcome to leave your children here," Kimble offers, getting a word in edge-wise.
"And who are you?" she asks suspiciously.
"He's just the janitor," Carlos says airily.
"They'll be safe with Sister Gregory," Kimble adds, tying the bag of trash he has collected. His point strikes home. Not
having a better alternative, the woman relents.
"Okay—if you are both very good and don't give any trouble—I'll bring you back tomorrow," she agrees.
Ricky charges out of her grasp with a whoop of joy. As they leave, he looks back at Kimble, beaming his gratitude.
Kimble waves, then swings the garbage bag over his shoulder and heads to the dumpster.
CHICAGO - PARKING LOT, TASK FORCE HEADQUARTERS - MON. AM
Captain Philip Gerard pulls up to work in his Ford Explorer. He gets out, shuts the door and begins walking towards
the building.
"Captain!" he hears from behind. He turns and sees fellow Task Force member Eve Hilliard hurrying to join him. "I did
some more follow-up on Agent Gagomiros' past—before he was hired by the Bureau," she informs him breathlessly.
"Yes, we know he did private investigation work. What else did you find?" Gerard asks, continuing towards the
building.
"A hidden client," Hilliard says.
Gerard swings round to face her, his expression alert.
Hilliard enjoys scooping the Captain. "Matthew Ross," she tells him mischievously.
"THE Matthew Ross?" Gerard repeats, astounded. He stops to absorb the ramifications.
"None other," Hilliard tells him. "Gagomiros investigated some business associates for Ross years ago. But Ross got rid
of him when he learned that Gagomiros had ties with the same people he was supposed to check out."
"So, you've smoked out Gagomiros and found Mr. Ross right behind... Well done, Eve," Gerard congratulates her.
"No telling who these 'associates' might be?" He holds the door open for Hilliard.
"Not yet, Captain," she answers, sailing past him.
"Keep on it," Gerard exhorts her, entering the building.
CLEVELAND - SISTER GREGORY'S OFFICE - MON. 4:00 PM
Kimble is seated at Sister Gregory's desk, using her computer. A pail and mop are against the wall. Kimble is absorbed
with his research, occasionally glancing over his shoulder toward the closed door. He doesn't notice the quiet en-
trance of the regal and attractive nun. The computer screen is clearly visible from the doorway. She stands there
thoughtfully, assessing the situation.
"I didn't realize you were interested in medicine," she says at last.
Kimble spins around, caught red-handed. "Sister Gregory...it's—its for a friend," he admits sheepishly, standing and
offering her the chair. "He's having trouble getting his medical insurance to cover expenses. And...I've heard of
experimental programs that take volunteers—but I needed to go on the Internet to see if his daughter would qualify."
He pauses. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."
Sister Gregory smiles. "You're welcome to use the computer, Tom," she says, going to a file cabinet, "if you feel you
need it. Fortunately, a parishioner donated an Internet account for us with unlimited access. To be honest, we don't
use it as much as we should. None of the sisters has the time to spare." Finding the file she is looking for, Sister
Gregory takes her seat at the desk. "Have you a moment to spare now?" she asks Kimble, motioning to another chair.
"Of course," Kimble replies, sitting down nervously.
"I can't remember when the school has looked so clean," Sister Gregory observes. "Nor can I remember ever hiring
anyone so industrious. You're doing a wonderful job here, Tom."
"My dad used to say, 'Whatever the job, make sure you give it your best'," Kimble tells her.
"Then clearly you take after him. The world would be a nicer place if more people felt as you do," she comments. "Are
you a religious man, Tom?"
Kimble looks startled.
"I noticed you don't attend mass, but you wear a St. Christopher medal," she says.
"My dad gave it to me...before he died," Kimble explains. "I was out of town when he passed on." Kimble frowns,
looking out the window. "I missed the funeral."
"I'm sorry," Sister Gregory says compassionately.
"The thing is—my dad was always there for me at the important moments growing up. And he hoped...that one day
I would be there for others." Kimble represses strong emotions by staring at the cross atop the roof of the church.
"But, you know," he confesses bitterly, "I'm glad my father isn't alive now. It would kill him to see me as I am...mopping
floors."
"I missed my mother's passing," Sister Gregory shares with him quietly. "I was at a seminar and they weren't able to
contact me soon enough. She had an aneurysm. Afterwards there was a void in my life that nothing seemed to fill."
Kimble turns his attention back to her, surprised. "But—I mean...not even God?"
She shakes her head. "Sometimes faith alone isn't enough. When I realized how much I was needed here, that I had
loving friends...the emptiness began to heal. It's still healing."
There is a knock on the door. A dimple-faced sister pops her head in. "Oh, I'm sorry," she says, seeing Kimble. "Sister,
it's the garage—on line two. They're asking permission to change the fan belt on Angels Express." She smiles, display-
ing more dimples, and ducks out.
Kimble rises. "I'd better get back to work," he says, then stops. "Sister...thanks."
Sister Gregory picks up the phone, covering the mouthpiece. "Thank you," she says to Kimble and takes the call.
Kimble picks up his mop and pail and closes the office door behind him.
ROSE OF SHARON SANCTUARY -WED. AM
The side door of the church is open on this balmy summer morning. Carlos and Ricky can be seen in the playground
beyond, riding the seesaw. The mother of the two boys is alone in a pew near the altar rail. Her hair
appears uncombed. Tears stream freely down her cheeks as she silently prays the rosary.
Kimble arrives for work with his mop and pail, entering by the side door. As he
begins to wash the floor he notices the woman in front, kneeling at prayer. He
continues with his cleaning, working his way up the aisle. Reaching the front
pews, he becomes aware that she is crying profusely. Kimble looks around
uncertainly for a moment, then returns the mop to the pail. He wipes his
hands on his jeans and steps into the pew behind hers.
Sliding along until he is close enough to whisper and be heard, Kimble says,
"Hello again."
The woman jerks around, crossing herself. "Ohhh!" she exclaims. "You scared
me—I thought you were a priest."
"My name is Tom Dale," Kimble says in a low voice.
"I remember—the janitor." She sits up, dubiously. "Is it alright for me to be
here?" she whispers.
"It's always alright," Kimble assures her.
She pulls a box of tissues from her bag and dries her face, breathing deeply to
keep the tears from flowing. Seeing thatKimble isn't going to leave, she says, "I'm Terri. Those are my
boys outside, Ricky and Carlos."
"Wonderful kids—you must be very proud of them," Kimble tells her.
"I wish their father had felt the same," Terri states vehemently. "He walked out. He took the money and the car and
left. Then we lost our house. Now I'm here...talking to a janitor." She sighs heavily, the tears returning. "The Devil
should take that man!"
"You don't mean that," Kimble says, glancing up at the rafters.
"No, I mean it!" Terri's voice rises. Her words tumble over each other, punctuated by gestures of frustration. "For
three months we've had no place of our own. First we went to the neighbor's, then to a shelter. One shelter after
another. Then I got us a room, but the lady said the boys made too much noise and this morning she threw us out and
I still haven't found a job and school will be starting and where am I supposed to register them? " She grabs more
tissues to stop the waterfall.
Kimble scoots closer, wanting to console her, but not sure how. Terri looks out the side door and Kimble follows her
gaze. Ricky is on a swing shrieking with delight as Carlos pushes him higher and higher.
"I have to do what's best for my boys," Terri says flatly, a strange look in her eyes. "They deserve a better life."
"A mother who loves her children," remarks Kimble. "That's the best any child could ask for."
"Why do you care?" Terri asks desolately. "God doesn't even care about us anymore. " She buries her head in her
arms, her thin shoulders shaking.
"I think He does, Terri, and I think He listens to our prayers...even if we don't always listen back," Kimble ventures.
He reaches out hesitantly and strokes her. "You're strong, Terri. You believe that things can get better or you wouldn't
be here."
Kimble looks up and sees Sister Gregory approaching with new flowers for the altar steps. She takes in what is happen-
ing and sets the arrangement down, coming over. Kimble stands.
"Sister Gregory," he says, "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Terri." Instantly embarrassed, but pleased, Terri
fumbles to dispose of the tissues.
"Sister," she acknowledges, trying to straighten her hair.
Sister Gregory sits down beside her, smiling warmly.
"Hello Terri. Tom tells me those two good-looking boys playing outside are yours," she remarks. "I don't suppose you
would be interested in registering them here at Rose of Sharon this Fall?"
Terri gapes at her.
"We need more voices for the school choir. And from the sound of it, our prayers have been answered!" Sister Gregory
continues cheerfully.
Terri shakes her head, stuttering, "I-I can't afford a good school like, like this one."
"Heavens, do you think everyone here can?" Sister Gregory asks. "Why don't you come by my office. We can discuss
the details now—if you're free this morning."
Overcome, Terri reaches for her bag. "I could never repay you," she warns, getting up. Sister Gregory rises and puts
an arm lightly around her.
"Well, to start off with," she says, leading the way, "how are you with a mop and a broom?" Sister Gregory catches
Kimble's eye. "Something tells me we're going to be losing our janitor soon."
Surprised, Kimble gives her a puzzled look.
SISTER GREGORY'S OFFICE - WED. 11:00 PM
Kimble enters the darkened office and flicks on a light. He goes quickly over to the desk, sits down and powers up the
computer. After a moment, he signs on to an anonymous surfing service to hide his location from Carnivore. Kimble
logs in and finds that he has email. He leans forward, reading eagerly a message from Chuck Brixius:
"Dr. Kimble, I finally got feedback on that question of yours. A supporter contacted a friend of a wife of a police
officer in Chicago, who saw the files from Gerard's shooting. She told me that a policeman did go down
afterwards and interview several witnesses at the hospital. They reported that you were seen escorting
a patient—another man, said to have Cerebral Palsy. No mention of his having one arm."
Kimble slams the desk with his fist. "How is that possible?" he cries aloud. The sound reverberates in the empty
room.
"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news," Brixius continues. "Also, another member of the website sent in
a possible Charnquist sighting for Haventown, Ohio. It's a bit old, though. He and his parents were
going North on vacation, when they stopped at an Amish store in Haventown for groceries. He over-
heard some local men gossiping about a stranger who passed through a week or so earlier. The dude
had bad manners and one arm. It was another week before he could get to a computer to post the info.
Probably not Charnquist—since you said Charnquist had a meeting in Detroit. Anyway, I thought
you'd like to know. Remember, I'm always here for you if you need me. Take care, Chuck"
Kimble sits with his thoughts for a long minute. Then he rereads the last sentence. A slight smile appears on his
weary face.
"Loving friends," he says, quoting Sister Gregory.
THE FRONT LAWN, ROSE OF SHARON CHURCH - FRI. AM
Sister Gregory is striding across the lawn toward Kimble. He is standing beside a traveling bag, gazing up at the bell
tower.
"Then, you're leaving us already Tom?" she begins.
"It's time," Kimble replies.
"I knew that we couldn't hold a man of your talents for long," Sister Gregory says. "But, are you certain you wouldn't
consider staying on to help the sisters become more computer literate?"
Kimble smiles. "No, but I appreciate the offer. Really... It's just that there are answers I have to find.
Sister Gregory turns and surveys the playground where Terri is applauding Ricky's exuberant performance on the
slide. "You did a lot for that young woman," she observes.
Kimble raises an eyebrow questioningly.
"Terri told me that she'd come to pray for God's forgiveness," Sister Gregory confides, "and was asking Our Heavenly
Father to provide for the boys." Her expression turns somber. "I think you should know that Terri planned to leave her
sons here that day and not return... She intended to take her own life."
Kimble inhales softly. "I didn't realize."
Sister Gregory faces him. "So, what convinced her otherwise?"
"Don't look at me," Kimble answers, self-effacingly.
Sister Gregory takes his arm. "You're a good man, Tom Dale. Your father would be proud."
Parishioners are arriving for the morning mass. "Well, I've got to go," she says. "You'll always find a welcome at Rose
of Sharon, Tom." The sunlight glints off Kimble's St. Christopher medal. She taps it with a forefinger. "And you'll find
He does watch over travelers...however heavy the burden." She gives him a beautiful smile of farewell and crosses the
lawn towards the open doors of the church.
Kimble picks up his bag. "There's one thing I have to do first, Sister," he says catching up to her.
"What's that?" she asks, interested.
Kimble's eyes dance and he gestures towards the church.
Sister Gregory nods. "A little miracle," she says with understanding.
They join the other parishioners filing into the church, as the carillon in the bell tower begins to ring.
CHICAGO - TASK FORCE OFFICES - FRI. 5:00 PM
Captain Gerard comes out of his office, briefcase in hand, and announces, "I'm going home!"
The Task Force members turn as one to look at him with astonishment.
"On time, Captain?" Eddie Miles asks incredulously.
"I'm sleeping better for some reason," Gerard explains, heading for the elevator. "I think I'll just call it an early night,
curl up with a good book, then get some shut-eye."
"Good idea," the members chorus.
"I'll stick around and tidy up," Hilliard offers.
"Fine, fine, you do that," Gerard agrees, stepping into the elevator.
As soon as he is gone, Miles says, "Well, I'm not sticking around any longer than I have to. Bye folks."
"Ditto. I'm out of here," says Victor Gutierrez, gathering up his things.
Hilliard purses her lips. "Well...I guess it's just going to be me and my shadow." She looks around at the clutter and
sets to work, returning papers to their folders, and files to their drawers. She bends, disgusted, to retrieve a file from
beneath the leavings of a Big Mac deposited under a chair.
"Oh, don't bother with that, child. I'll get it" instructs an ample-figured cleaning woman coming in with her cart.
"Is it that late already?" Hilliard asks, checking her watch.
"The cleaning crew comes early on Fridays. We all want to get home for the weekend, and that's the truth," the
woman says, unpacking her supplies. She begins to hum loudly to herself.
Hilliard looks about distractedly. "I guess I should be going, too, then." She opens her briefcase and begins to stuff
several files inside for later reviewing.
In Gerard's office the phone rings. It continues to ring and to ring. Hilliard glances up, annoyed. Gerard's line on her
desk phone is flashing. She stares at it. "So I'll be a girl scout," she says, feeling her self-imposed martyrdom.
"Agent Hilliard," she answers, picking up.
"Give me Captain Gerard," demands Kimble, shortly. Hilliard recognizes the voice and immediately grabs a notepad
and pencil.
"Captain Gerard has left the office for the evening," she says, masking her excitement.
"I doubt that," Kimble retorts.
"Believe it. I can take your message," Hilliard asserts, poised in readiness.
There is a lengthy pause while Kimble wrestles with his desire to confront Gerard directly and his need to convey the
information.
"Alright," he consents. "Tell Gerard I know he's been protecting Ben Charnquist."
"How so?" Hilliard exclaims, taken aback.
"Covering up for him, like the police did in Baltimore." Kimble replies
"You're mistaken, Dr. Kimble. Captain Gerard is not interested in your story of Ben Charnquist," Hilliard relates...adding,
"but I am."
"Why has he stopped following the evidence, then?" Kimble demands.
"I don't know what you're referring to," Hilliard says.
"At least four people saw a one-armed man with me at Chicago General," Kimble informs her angrily. Realizing she
has the report right there, Hilliard pulls it from her briefcase and quickly scans it.
"Wrong again, Dr. Kimble. No witness saw you with a one-armed man."
"Were they asked?" Kimble inquires, growing testy.
Hilliard rereads the statements. Shock is apparent on her face. "Well," she says, her voice faltering, "the focus of our
investigation was on the multiple shootings that day. We lost one of our own and another was gravely wounded." Shesorts through succeeding documents. "It would appear we made only the one report—a police officer asked each witness at the hospital to I.D. Richard Kimble. It was not our priority to I.D. a deceased one-armed man."
"You say you're interested in the truth about Ben Charnquist," Kimble challenges. "Prove it — get those I.D.s!" He
hangs up.
Hilliard puts the phone down slowly and drums her fingers in concentration. It is the only sound in the room. The
camera pans to show that she is alone now.
"Oh no, Captain," Hilliard says slowly shaking her head. "This one has my name on it." Hilliard looks towards
Gerard's office and smiles a secret smile.
END OF EPISODE