EXT. CHICAGO --
ESTABLISHING -- NIGHT
EXT. AN ALLEY
IN THE LOOP
Under the glow
of dingy street lamps, wind blows litter along a gutter,
past homeless people wrapped in ratty blankets, past a
burning barrel and huddled drunks, and an old woman
pushing a shopping cart filled with plastic bags. She
wears a long coat and red scarf. Amid the swirl of dust
and debris, she stops at a dumpster, stabs trash with a
broomstick. Above her, an elevated train CLATTERS by.
EXT. CHICAGO
SUBURB -- SAME TIME
The CLATTER
subsides in the distance as wind-blown leaves tumble
along a street in front of a red brick house with dark
windows. Skeletal trees sway. A contrast of moonlight
and shadows.
INT. RED BRICK
HOUSE -- BEDROOM
Moonlight
bathes the room in a soft glow. Everything is in its
place. In bed, a couple sleeps.
(OVER) a loud
THUMP - the woman is jarred awake. This is KAREN CARLYLE
(52). She nudges her husband.
KAREN
Roger?
He SNORTS.
KAREN
Roger.
Did you hear that?
ROGER
It's
the wind, Karen. Go back to sleep.
Tree branches
SCRAPE the house.
KAREN
Of
course, sorry.
She closes her
eyes. Another THUMP. Her eyelids spring open. Terrified,
she listens a beat then relaxes.
KAREN
(mutters)
It's
the wind, Karen. Jeeze.
Tossing and
turning, she punches her pillow, then gets up, stabs her
feet into slippers, and exits the bedroom. She walks
down the hall then down the stairs to the living room
where she switches on a small end-table lamp and checks
the front door. It's locked. Warily, she glances around
then moves to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator
creates a blast of light that throws her shadow on the
wall. In the fridge, she sees lids off containers,
spilled milk, broken eggs dripping yoke. A frown.
Turning, she scans the shadowy kitchen, sees mail
scattered across the counter.
KAREN
(whispers)
What
the hell?
She moves to
the counter, gathers the mail into a pile, looks back at
the mess in the refrigerator. A long beat then a dark
expression forms on her face as she remembers:
MORRIS
BRENNON (30) chained to a steel chair in a room with a
mirrored wall. He's fat, bald, and ugly, mad as hell,
his voice raspy and deep.
MORRIS
I'll
know what you ate for dinner.
I'll know
what came in your mail.
BACK TO SCENE
Clenching her
fists, Karen steps back, turns slowly. Fearful eyes dart
about the kitchen. She's verging on panic.
KAREN
It
can't be.
The shadow of
an axe appears on the wall above her head and slashes
down. She SCREAMS, bolts, the axe just missing her. A
frantic scramble through the living room. She knocks
over the small lamp. It CRASHES to the floor. The
lampshade goes flying, the bulb POPS, dousing the room
in shadows.
KAREN
Roger!
She claws her
way up the stairs.
KAREN
Roger!
She bursts into
the bedroom, jumps on the bed, shakes him.
KAREN
Roger!
He's not waking
up. She looks at her hands. Blood! She SCREAMS. The room
lights come on. She sees Morris in the doorway, his
finger on the switch, fat face wrenched in anger.
KAREN
Morris
Brennon?
He raises the
axe.
MORRIS
I told
you I'd be back, bitch.
He swings. She
dodges. He jumps on the bed. She rolls off, runs for the
doorway. His boots tangle in the sheets, trip him up.
She runs down the hallway. Behind her, Morris bolts from
the bedroom, axe held high. She SCREAMS, plows down the
stairs, falls. The axe WHIZZES by her head, THUNKS into
the carpeted floor. On hands and knees, she scrambles
toward the door. He grabs her leg.
MORRIS
Far
enough, bitch.
He turns her
over, rips off her nightgown.
MORRIS
Now
you're gonna die like them nurses.
She's fighting,
kicking. Her slippers fly off.
KAREN
You
were executed thirty years ago!
MORRIS
And ya
got famous off my story. Too bad ya didn't tell
it right.
KAREN
I told
my readers the truth!
MORRIS
Yeah? Well
your readers are gonna love this.
He clamps his
hands on her throat, starts squeezing. She spots the
lamp on the floor next to her, the broken bulb, the
exposed filaments still sparking. Reaching out, she
grabs the lamp and stabs it into his face. SIZZLING
sparks fly. HOLLERING, he rolls over, hands on his face.
Smoke swirls from between his fingers. Karen scrambles
for the door, fumbles with the lock. Behind her, he's
getting up. She throws open the door. He lunges toward
her. She dashes outside. SCREAMING, she makes it to the
street, runs barefoot and naked through a swirl of
wind-driven leaves. Neighbors' porch lights wink on.
EXT. A WHITE
STUCCO HOUSE -- LATER
Leaves RUSTLE
by another porch light that illuminates a girl's bike, a
soccer ball. The faint WARBLE of a cell phone is coming
from inside.
INT. WHITE
STUCCO HOUSE -- BEDROOM
The WARBLE is
loud. A glowing clock on the nightstand reads
4:10 and reveals a room in disarray, clothes tossed
about, books, clutter. A man's fumbling hand
reaches out from under the sheets, locates the phone,
grabs it, and takes it under the covers. The WARBLE
stops.
RITTER
Yeah.
Ritter.
His voice is
low, considerate of his wife sleeping beside him.
RITTER
I'll be
right there.
SPENCE RITTER
(33) gets up quietly, turns on a small light. He tucks
white shirttails into black slacks. Straps on a shoulder
holster and gun. Dons a lanyard with a badge. A sport
coat. He licks his fingers, combs them through his hair,
looks in the mirror, calls it good. His wife appears to
be sleeping, but as he exits the bedroom, she opens her
eyes. She's been crying.
His silhouette
moves down the hall, stops at a closed door. He opens
it. Peers inside. A night-light reveals stuffed animals,
dolls, pompoms, two beds, two girls sleeping. The
sadness in his eyes is unmistakable. He closes the door.
EXT. WHITE
STUCCO HOUSE -- MOMENTS LATER
In the
driveway, a Ford Crown Vic unmarked police car fires up,
lights up, and tears off.
EXT. RED BRICK
HOUSE -- LATER
Emergency
vehicles jam the street at odd angles, overheads
flashing. The Crown Vic pulls up. Cops on the scene
watch Ritter get out, duck under yellow tape and move
toward them.
COP
Sorry
to call you out this early, detective.
RITTER
As if
my wife isn't pissed off enough. What've you
got?
COP
Neighbors
heard screaming, called 911. Got here, front
door was open. Cleared the house, but the perp
was gone. One body inside.
Ritter and the
cop move toward the house where Karen is sitting on the
porch, clutching a blanket. EMTs attend to her.
RITTER
(to
the cop)
Who is
she?
COP
Karen
Carlyle, investigative reporter for the Chicago
Tribune.
Karen watches
Ritter pass. She looks as if she's seen a ghost. Ritter
and the cop enter the dark house.
INT. LIVING
ROOM
RITTER
No
lights?
The cop turns
on his flashlight.
COP
She
zapped him with a lamp. Blew a fuse.
The cop's
flashlight shines on a broken lamp lying nearby, sweeps
over to a nasty gash in the carpet.
COP
An axe.
Perp took it with him.
RITTER
Where's
the body?
COP
Upstairs.
INT. BEDROOM
A body lies on
the bed. Bloody sheets. Cameras flash. TECHs dust for
prints. The CORONER (65) SNAPS on gloves.
CORONER
I
haven't seen anything like this since Morris
Brennon, some thirty years ago.
COP
(to
Ritter)
He
killed three nurses in Champaign. Got the death
penalty.
RITTER
Did
Mrs. Carlyle give a statement?
COP
She's
still in shock.
RITTER
I'd
better talk to her.
EXT. RED BRICK
HOUSE -- PORCH -- MOMENTS LATER
Ritter exits
the house, moves to Karen. She's staring into space.
EMTs roll a gurney up the walk.
RITTER
(to
an EMT)
How is
she?
EMT
Banged
up pretty bad.
Ritter kneels
to Karen's eye level.
RITTER
Who did
this to you?
No response. A
shell of a woman.
RITTER
Why did
he kill your husband?
Her eyes grow
stern, meet his. No tears, just anger. EMTs help her to
her feet, guide her to the gurney.
RITTER
Was it
someone he knew?
She lies on the
gurney. EMTs strap her in and wheel her to the
ambulance. Ritter dogs along.
RITTER
Talk to
me.
She's loaded
into the ambulance. Ritter's standing at the back door.
RITTER
Give me
something, anything.
An EMT pulls
him out of the way. Doors SLAM shut. The ambulance tears
off, churning leaves in its wake.
EXT. INDIANA
COUNTRYSIDE -- DAY
Cornstalks
stand tall under a blue sky, peaceful, until SOUNDS
approach, SCUFFLING boots, CLANKING metal. Armed
soldiers rush by, and overhead, the air-thumping HAMMER
of helicopter blades as a squadron of Hueys flies low.
It's a dragnet.
EXT. BLACK HAWK
HELICOPTER -- SAME TIME
The chopper
approaches a clutch of buildings surrounded by a stone
wall and over-flies a sign that reads: BLYTHE
BIOTECH. U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. KEEP OUT.
EXT. BLYTHE
BIOTECH -- MOMENTS LATER
The Black Hawk
lands, beating dust into the air. Doors open. An officer
gets out, GENERAL HARRISON (66). He ducks and moves to a
waiting group of men, some wearing white lab coats. A
man in suit and tie steps forward, DR. JOHN LARSON (65).
LARSON
General
Harrison.
HARRISON
What
the hell happened, Larson?
LARSON
He got
out through a drainage culvert, cut the bars.
HARRISON
This is
the second one you've lost.
LARSON
In all
fairness, sir, the other one was thirty years
ago.
HARRISON
If we
don't find this one, dead bodies are gonna start
turning up all over.
LARSON
I told
you Morris wasn't a good candidate for this
project. He's unpredictable. Uncontrollable.
HARRISON
I want
a full report.