Hello again, and welcome once again to the Millennium Museum.
I know I usually go all-out when Halloween rolls around--custom logo, custom themes, what-have-you--but things have been a little crazy of late, and I haven't had as much time or energy to devote to that as I would have liked to have.
All that aside, I shall celebrate the holiday with Dracula 2000. At the moment, I've just rented it from Comcast On-Demand, and hopefully my thoughts are still somewhat fresh.
It was...a curiosity. The story opens in present-day London, where a gang of thieves break into the mansion of legendary vampire-hunter Abraham Van Helsing and his young ward Simon (not Simon Belmont from Castlevania, sadly) and steal Count Dracula, dormant in his coffin. After some hijinks aboard their cargo-plane, he awakens and crashes the plane near New Orleans...and it's Mardi Gras.
I was pleasantly surprised at how the holiday was used. Normally, it's just scenic eye-candy, but here it was used thematically. The Mardi Gras celebrations seen here are an all-out bacchanalia of sex, violence, and drunkenness. Lurid advertisements for strip-shows littered the ground alongside cheap, garish plastic beads and discarded cups and bottles. Half-naked men and women in leather gear and all manner of outlandish getup swarmed through the streets, writhing and grinding to pulsing techno music. It's like a twentieth-century take on Hieronymus Bosch's triptych, The Garden of Earthly Delights.
That being said, however, the Mardi Gras scene is never presented as a sign of moral degradation, at least not as long as the holiday remains the one night of pure chaos before Lent, the forty-day period of order, restraint, and self-control. The human revelers may look like a peculiar bunch at first glance, but they'll go back to their normal, decent lives the next day. The same cannot be said for Dracula and his kind, for they are the sign of moral degradation. They can party all night long, sleep throughout the day, and then go straight back to partying once the sun goes down. They're freed from human and societal constraints, but they're enslaved to their bloodlust. They can neither create nor contribute anything to the world but a net loss.
Worse still, religious symbols--the Bible, holy water, the crucifix--cannot harm these vampires. Is it because they're too strong, or is it because our faith is too weak? Dracula 2000 tries to suggest that both are the case, but it doesn't quite work, not least because it comes up with a baffling plot twist.
Are you ready?
In Dracula 2000, Dracula is revealed to be the undead Judas Iscariot.
I'll repeat that, in case it didn't quite register.
In Dracula 2000, Dracula is revealed to be the undead Judas Iscariot.
I know! I could scarcely believe it myself. It just about works as a way of making him thoroughly unstoppable by conventional methods but providing a means to bump him off at the end (he gets hanged on a stray electrical cable, and then fries in the sunlight).
To be fair, it is an original take on the character, and it's not as if anyone could simply ask him. I just feel that it weakens Dracula in some way, because, to me, he works precisely because there's something unknowable about him.
Perhaps my antipathy toward this revelation comes from how disappointed I was at the lack of "2000" in Dracula 2000. Had the cast and crew found some way to tie all of this stuff into the Millennium, I would probably be much happier with it. Everything in it--Mardi Gras, the religion angle, even the thieves who break into Van Helsing's super-secure vault at the beginning--all could have been seamlessly threaded together. For example, the gang of thieves could have been sent from some agency bent on bringing about Hell on earth in time for the millennium, and Dracula's incredible strength could have been a meditation on how traditions are losing their strength. (Then again, this would probably have made Dracula 2000 too closely resemble End of Days.)
All we have is a bunch of threads without a unifying idea to tie them together.
I think a second viewing is in order. There may be one or two things I missed the first time around.
Friday, October 21, 2016
Saturday, August 6, 2016
Millennium S1E10: "The Wild and the Innocent"
Quite a while ago, I had a gift: a window into the minds of madmen. I could see what they saw in the world. It's kind of dimmed a little as I've gotten older...I like to think that I'm finally being allowed pleasant dreams in my declining years.
In my time with the Millennium Group, those visions were accurate. That being said, I'll freely admit that I didn't always interpret them correctly. There was this one time, come to think of it, where I was out in Missouri. The name of a serial killer I caught several years ago came up again, but then he turned out to be a victim. He gets no sympathy from me, all the same...
====================================================================
In my time with the Millennium Group, those visions were accurate. That being said, I'll freely admit that I didn't always interpret them correctly. There was this one time, come to think of it, where I was out in Missouri. The name of a serial killer I caught several years ago came up again, but then he turned out to be a victim. He gets no sympathy from me, all the same...
====================================================================
"O Lord, if there is a Lord/Save my soul, if I have a soul--"
Ernest Renan
========================================================================
It all started with a tiny little lion with a curly red mane, prowling through the jungle.
Or was it a tiger? Neither, as it turned out: it was just Jordan, acting the fool like any good five-year-old should. Ooh, she thought she was being a sneaky little predator, but there was no fooling these eagle-eyes.
Looking back on it, I still smile. But what she said next stopped Cath and me dead in our tracks.
"Are you and Daddy going to have another baby?"
Uh-oh. How do I explain this to her? See, I keep calling her "my miracle daughter" as I relate these tales to you. That's because we were supposed to be infertile, but then we ended up conceiving after all. Looking back, I suppose we probably could have tried again, but it was safer not to press our good luck.
Yes, I was lost for words. Fortunately, I was saved by a bell--the unmistakably electronic sound of our house phone, to be exact. When I picked up, the friendly voice of Peter Watts came through. Figuring that he might have something interesting for me to look at, I headed for the basement.
As soon as I logged in to the Millennium Group's secure site, a file containing information on a one Jake Waterston--alias Jim Gilroy--popped up.
I felt like I'd just eaten some day-old oysters at room temperature. See, back in '92, he was in Newport News, Virginia. Raped and strangled three nurses. Typical low-life.
"He's surfaced," Peter said. "Been living in Joplin, Missouri for the past five years, under the name Jim Gilroy. Last night, a Missouri state trooper got shot, point-blank. The car was registered in Jim's name."
"Let's just make sure we don't lose him again."
==========================================
I met up with Peter Watts at a small airport in Missouri. From there, we set out to make our way to Jim Gilroy's house.
"You have to appreciate Jim Gilroy's discipline," I mused. "A man of his impulses, able to keep quiet for five years."
"Well, he wasn't unknown to local PD, but he never broke a law," Peter corrected me.
I pressed the issue. "But he was facing multiple murder charges. Capital punishment. He'd gone underground successfully...why risk it?"
Before we could even think about Jim Gilroy, we had to make a stop at a house belonging to the...Haskel, I think the name was. Yes, I remember now: the family's name was 'Haskel.'
The place was a bit rustic, the sort of thing you'd find in some coming-of-age novel. I noticed some well-kept china vases on the fireplace, as well as a 45" TV set with the word "Angel" carved into the glass.
At that moment, Captain Bigelow of the Missouri State Police stepped up to introduce himself. After we'd made our introductions, he asked us if we knew Jim Gilroy. "We know him by another name," Peter began, "but yes, Frank pursued him while he was with the FBI."
"How violent is he?" Bigelow asked.
Peter replied: "He murdered three women in Virginia over a Labor Day weekend. The funerals had to be...closed-casket."
I quietly went on a self-guided tour of the house. A full-length mirror in one of the bedrooms caught my eye. Looked like it had been shattered in a struggle. Nasty one, at that--the mirror was bloodstained close to a large shard that had fallen out.
Putting on a pair of rubber gloves, I made my way to the bathroom. Sure enough, there was a bloodstain in the tub. As I looked up, the mirrored medicine cabinet presented to me my reflection. (Astonishingly, the glass did not immediately shatter.)
A vision flashed before my eyes: A woman was looking at herself in the mirror and crying. Suddenly she shattered it with her fist. She turned on the bath and, with the large shard, sliced open her wrist.
The vision ceased. Officer Bigelow might know something about all this.
"Killean Haskel," he told me. "She bled to death in the bathtub, and they buried her yesterday. Coroner concluded that it was a suicide."
"You might want to reconsider that," I said. We were in what looked like their daughter's bedroom. I picked up a photo album from the night stand and opened it. The first thing we saw was a prom-night picture of a young couple, dressed to the nines, followed by wedding pictures and Polaroids taken in various places.
"Is this Killean Haskel's husband?" I asked. "Must be," Bigelow replied. "As far as I know, she was divorced."
"Did they have any children?"
"Daughter. Madeline Haskel, now 20 years old. She lived here, too...We haven't located her yet."
I looked at the bloodstained sheets on the bed. Another vision, this time of Jim Gilroy straddling a terrified Maddie. The scumbag licked his fingers as she screamed.
"Have you typed and cross-matched the blood?" I asked Officer Bigelow.
"I'll get a tech to take a sample," he said. "We assumed it was the mother's."
"We need to find the daughter," I concluded. "She might know something that could help us."
===========================================================
Later that evening, Peter and I were at the Missouri State Police's barracks. The three of us--him, Bigelow, and myself--were watching video of the state trooper's death at Jim Gilroy's hands.
"Looks like the trooper took the proper approach," Bigelow said. "Seems he just didn't see the gun."
As I jotted down the license-plate number--RH7-487--a flicker of movement on the right-hand side of the screen caught my eye. "Pan right," I ordered. Peter complied with a few keystrokes.
"Is there a report?" I asked as Bigelow gave me a complete forensics report. "Killer used armor-piercing rounds," he said.
Peter interrupted him. "Wait--Jim Gilroy never used a gun. He garroted his victims. Cut them."
"Hold on, hold on," Bigelow exclaimed. "Are you trying to tell me that Jim Gilroy didn't kill my trooper?"
"You know him as Gilroy," I countered, "but we know him as Jake Waterston. He's neither rash nor careless. He wouldn't have acted on impulse unless he believed that his new identity was being threatened.
I turned to Peter and asked him to go back. We saw something move in the passenger's seat.
"That's not Gilroy. He's six-foot-two, and whoever's in there is much smaller." I flicked through the report. "Oh, look at this. There were two blood types identified: B-negative and A-negative. We know that Gilroy's is A-negative...but the video doesn't show the driver getting hurt or anything. Maybe Gilroy isn't driving."
I closed my eyes to think for a second, and the answer came to me. "The passenger is Maddie Haskel. If Gilroy were driving, she'd have been dead already."
"Well, if Gilroy isn't driving, and if he isn't the passenger...then where the hell is he?" Bigelow asked. ============================================================
It was about 1:30 in the morning. I went back to the Haskel place to see if I could find another angle.
The best place to start would be the last place I'd seen: Maddie's bedroom. It's funny...Someone told me once that you can tell a man by what you find on his bookshelf. Hers was mostly children's books, but a big red volume labeled "WEST HIGH SCHOOL" along its spine called out to me.
I flicked through the pages, and was soon rewarded with a picture of Maddie Haskel. Underneath, I saw a handwritten message: "Dear Maddie--See you soon after BASIC TRAINING. then you're mine. Love, Bobby W."
"Bobby W.," huh? I made a beeline for the very back of the book. I found a Dean Walker; a Bart Wear...and, finally, a Robert Webber. Black curly hair, handsome in a James Dean kind of way...but I remember those eyes most of all. They burned with an unsettling fire...They leant an intense, bordering on insane, aura to his features. Did he aspire to the Army as a means of controlling his unstable impulses...or feeding them? The second seemed more likely. (By the by, I never went for that whole "you're mine" thing so common in teenage love stories. It always manages to end badly.)
Most of the time, the yearbook will ask the kids to write something about themselves, and his was simply "Being all I can be."
I kind of figured.
As I closed the book, a pile of envelopes, all stamped, fell out. One of them, stamped and unsealed, was addressed to "Angel Haskel." Now, let it be known that it's usually not good form to read someone else's mail, but the normal rules of etiquette go out the window when lives are on the line.
"Dear Angel," the letter began, "I never told you about the night you left. I'd gone out for groceries, and when I came home, you were gone. I was terrified. I was lost. I couldn't get a straight answer out of anybody. I must have driven for hours looking for you, but there was no sign. I got tired and kind of gave up. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I gave you up on that night. Please forgive me."
I found another one, marked "December 24th."
"Dear Angel, it's Christmas Eve. I remember when I was ten years old and I caught Momma putting presents under the tree. Broke my heart. Believing in Santa was the last bit of little-kid mystery left in the world. I'm looking up at the dark, winter sky right now, wishing that weren't true, wishing that old guy in the red suit would bring you home. I miss you so much. I got to go. He hates it when I write to you. I can hear him coming up the stairs."
As I read those words, I too heard footsteps. It was Peter Watts.
"Did you find something?" he asked.
"Just some letters. I think they're to her father," I replied.
"Records show that his name was John Haskel. He split...long gone."
"Left some deep wounds, though."
We heard a car pull up. Through the window, a police car's red and blue lights flashed. It was Bigelow, with news for us. "We found Jim Gilroy's car, in Springdale, Arkansas, about two hours south from here."
If my suspicions were right...and they usually are...then we had to catch up to our lead in a hurry.
We got to Springdale just as a tow truck pulled the car out of the water. Two troopers busted open the trunk with crowbars. Inside was Jim Gilroy, nee Jake Waterston, his face badly bruised and bloodied, his lungs full of water, and a bullet hole in his thigh.
Jim, Jim, Jake...Karma's a bitch, don't you think?
==========================================================
A couple of hours later, Peter and I paid him a visit at the hospital.
They'd put him in the jail ward. Bigelow and a trooper named Flanagan were in there, grilling him. Sad to say, they were getting nowhere: the jailbird refused to sing. I decided to make my move.
"Who was Maddie riding with?" I asked. He feigned ignorance, but I knew better.
"I know you," I continued. "You used to live at 898 Gadsden Place, Newport News, Virginia. You worked at a mill by the docks, and drove a '73 Impala. Your real name is Jake Waterston and you killed three women. You have no reason to lie."
I saw it in his eyes: he knew the game was up. "They beat me and left me in the trunk. Ever stop to think that I'd be dead if not for the air pocket in there?"
"Not in the way you do. Who's Maddie riding with?"
"Her boyfriend, Bobby Webber. He got me 'cause I wasn't ready for him."
"What did you do to Maddie?"
"Nothin'."
"You killed her mother."
"That hothead? She killed herself."
"You let her. You perpetrated the abuse on Maddie."
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Peter Watts coming in through the security gate. Time to play my last card.
"Who's 'Angel'?"
No reply. Of course.
I knew I wouldn't get any more out of him, so I took my leave of him and went to talk to Peter. He turned out to have some good news.
"I found Maddie's father. Turns out he was an inmate at the Fond du Lac Correctional Institute in Waupan, Missouri. He died there last year, and he's buried in an unmarked grave in a potter's field close to the prison."
"...Maddie must be after something else," I said, almost to myself, as I left the hospital. I needed some cool air, and time to turn things over in my head.
My mind flashed back to those letters. She must have known that her father was dead. The writing of those letters didn't add up, though. She'd written them in the present tense. Were they a confessional...an oral history...or...or...
The answer hit me like a strong vodka-and-tonic, but I'd need Maddie's medical records before I could confirm my suspicions.
==========================================================
Later the next day, at about 6:30 in the morning, we gathered at the Arkansas State Police headquarters, and sat down to look at Maddie's medical records.
Sure enough, we found a birth certificate from St. Mary's Hospital for Angel Webber, born on July 14th. Neither of us knew what had happened to the baby, but I had an idea...an unpleasant one, I admit. Just to be sure, I'd need to access Jim Gilroy's bank records. Peter Watts found a phone line and set up an Internet connection with his laptop.
A few minutes later, he'd found something. About ten months ago, Jim Gilroy received $7,000.00 in his bank account...wire transfer. It was only two months after Angel was born. I could only conclude that he'd bought Maddie's baby, sold it, and bought himself a TV. The wire-transfer came from the account of a lawyer named Rudolph Barnard.
A little more investigation revealed that Angel was adopted by the Travis family in Little Rock. The state police immediately sent out three squad cars after they placed a call and got no answer.
==========================================================
By the time Watts and I got there, it was already a hostage situation. The cars were lined up outside the house, parallel to each other, and the cops all had their sights at the front door. Oh, it was tense, I tell you--nobody dared to even so much as breathe, lest some fool pulled their trigger too soon.
In a split second, the sharp CRACK of a freshly-fired gun popped the atmosphere around us like a pin to a child's balloon. Somewhere around me, a radio blared out a frantic set of orders.
The door opened. Out came Maddie, her face totally blank and her lower lip bleeding slightly. I begged the firing-squad around me to stay their execution, and I ran to her. "It's over, Maddie," I said, as I took the gun from her limp hands. No resistance at all.
A quick peek inside showed me everything I needed to know: The Travises were still holding the baby, and Bobby, at the foot of the stairs, was dead. Looks like she took his gun, then he hit her; and finally she'd had enough and gave him what was coming to him.
No more problems.
========================================================
A little while later, I paid Maddie a visit, had a friendly chat. We were in a small interrogation room at the prison where she was serving her sentence.
"The Travises send me a picture once in a while," she began. "I asked them not to tell Angel anything about his mother...He'd have just grown up to be another Bobby, another Jim, another man just like my father. You saved me that day...You're the only man in my life that ever did anything nice for me."
A guard interrupted us. Time's up.
"I spend my time thinking of Angel. Prayin' that he ain't thinkin' of me."
Sometimes, you see, happy endings aren't always what you'd think they should be.
Or was it a tiger? Neither, as it turned out: it was just Jordan, acting the fool like any good five-year-old should. Ooh, she thought she was being a sneaky little predator, but there was no fooling these eagle-eyes.
Looking back on it, I still smile. But what she said next stopped Cath and me dead in our tracks.
"Are you and Daddy going to have another baby?"
Uh-oh. How do I explain this to her? See, I keep calling her "my miracle daughter" as I relate these tales to you. That's because we were supposed to be infertile, but then we ended up conceiving after all. Looking back, I suppose we probably could have tried again, but it was safer not to press our good luck.
Yes, I was lost for words. Fortunately, I was saved by a bell--the unmistakably electronic sound of our house phone, to be exact. When I picked up, the friendly voice of Peter Watts came through. Figuring that he might have something interesting for me to look at, I headed for the basement.
As soon as I logged in to the Millennium Group's secure site, a file containing information on a one Jake Waterston--alias Jim Gilroy--popped up.
I felt like I'd just eaten some day-old oysters at room temperature. See, back in '92, he was in Newport News, Virginia. Raped and strangled three nurses. Typical low-life.
"He's surfaced," Peter said. "Been living in Joplin, Missouri for the past five years, under the name Jim Gilroy. Last night, a Missouri state trooper got shot, point-blank. The car was registered in Jim's name."
"Let's just make sure we don't lose him again."
==========================================
I met up with Peter Watts at a small airport in Missouri. From there, we set out to make our way to Jim Gilroy's house.
"You have to appreciate Jim Gilroy's discipline," I mused. "A man of his impulses, able to keep quiet for five years."
"Well, he wasn't unknown to local PD, but he never broke a law," Peter corrected me.
I pressed the issue. "But he was facing multiple murder charges. Capital punishment. He'd gone underground successfully...why risk it?"
Before we could even think about Jim Gilroy, we had to make a stop at a house belonging to the...Haskel, I think the name was. Yes, I remember now: the family's name was 'Haskel.'
The place was a bit rustic, the sort of thing you'd find in some coming-of-age novel. I noticed some well-kept china vases on the fireplace, as well as a 45" TV set with the word "Angel" carved into the glass.
At that moment, Captain Bigelow of the Missouri State Police stepped up to introduce himself. After we'd made our introductions, he asked us if we knew Jim Gilroy. "We know him by another name," Peter began, "but yes, Frank pursued him while he was with the FBI."
"How violent is he?" Bigelow asked.
Peter replied: "He murdered three women in Virginia over a Labor Day weekend. The funerals had to be...closed-casket."
I quietly went on a self-guided tour of the house. A full-length mirror in one of the bedrooms caught my eye. Looked like it had been shattered in a struggle. Nasty one, at that--the mirror was bloodstained close to a large shard that had fallen out.
Putting on a pair of rubber gloves, I made my way to the bathroom. Sure enough, there was a bloodstain in the tub. As I looked up, the mirrored medicine cabinet presented to me my reflection. (Astonishingly, the glass did not immediately shatter.)
A vision flashed before my eyes: A woman was looking at herself in the mirror and crying. Suddenly she shattered it with her fist. She turned on the bath and, with the large shard, sliced open her wrist.
The vision ceased. Officer Bigelow might know something about all this.
"Killean Haskel," he told me. "She bled to death in the bathtub, and they buried her yesterday. Coroner concluded that it was a suicide."
"You might want to reconsider that," I said. We were in what looked like their daughter's bedroom. I picked up a photo album from the night stand and opened it. The first thing we saw was a prom-night picture of a young couple, dressed to the nines, followed by wedding pictures and Polaroids taken in various places.
"Is this Killean Haskel's husband?" I asked. "Must be," Bigelow replied. "As far as I know, she was divorced."
"Did they have any children?"
"Daughter. Madeline Haskel, now 20 years old. She lived here, too...We haven't located her yet."
I looked at the bloodstained sheets on the bed. Another vision, this time of Jim Gilroy straddling a terrified Maddie. The scumbag licked his fingers as she screamed.
"Have you typed and cross-matched the blood?" I asked Officer Bigelow.
"I'll get a tech to take a sample," he said. "We assumed it was the mother's."
"We need to find the daughter," I concluded. "She might know something that could help us."
===========================================================
Later that evening, Peter and I were at the Missouri State Police's barracks. The three of us--him, Bigelow, and myself--were watching video of the state trooper's death at Jim Gilroy's hands.
"Looks like the trooper took the proper approach," Bigelow said. "Seems he just didn't see the gun."
As I jotted down the license-plate number--RH7-487--a flicker of movement on the right-hand side of the screen caught my eye. "Pan right," I ordered. Peter complied with a few keystrokes.
"Is there a report?" I asked as Bigelow gave me a complete forensics report. "Killer used armor-piercing rounds," he said.
Peter interrupted him. "Wait--Jim Gilroy never used a gun. He garroted his victims. Cut them."
"Hold on, hold on," Bigelow exclaimed. "Are you trying to tell me that Jim Gilroy didn't kill my trooper?"
"You know him as Gilroy," I countered, "but we know him as Jake Waterston. He's neither rash nor careless. He wouldn't have acted on impulse unless he believed that his new identity was being threatened.
I turned to Peter and asked him to go back. We saw something move in the passenger's seat.
"That's not Gilroy. He's six-foot-two, and whoever's in there is much smaller." I flicked through the report. "Oh, look at this. There were two blood types identified: B-negative and A-negative. We know that Gilroy's is A-negative...but the video doesn't show the driver getting hurt or anything. Maybe Gilroy isn't driving."
I closed my eyes to think for a second, and the answer came to me. "The passenger is Maddie Haskel. If Gilroy were driving, she'd have been dead already."
"Well, if Gilroy isn't driving, and if he isn't the passenger...then where the hell is he?" Bigelow asked. ============================================================
It was about 1:30 in the morning. I went back to the Haskel place to see if I could find another angle.
The best place to start would be the last place I'd seen: Maddie's bedroom. It's funny...Someone told me once that you can tell a man by what you find on his bookshelf. Hers was mostly children's books, but a big red volume labeled "WEST HIGH SCHOOL" along its spine called out to me.
I flicked through the pages, and was soon rewarded with a picture of Maddie Haskel. Underneath, I saw a handwritten message: "Dear Maddie--See you soon after BASIC TRAINING. then you're mine. Love, Bobby W."
"Bobby W.," huh? I made a beeline for the very back of the book. I found a Dean Walker; a Bart Wear...and, finally, a Robert Webber. Black curly hair, handsome in a James Dean kind of way...but I remember those eyes most of all. They burned with an unsettling fire...They leant an intense, bordering on insane, aura to his features. Did he aspire to the Army as a means of controlling his unstable impulses...or feeding them? The second seemed more likely. (By the by, I never went for that whole "you're mine" thing so common in teenage love stories. It always manages to end badly.)
Most of the time, the yearbook will ask the kids to write something about themselves, and his was simply "Being all I can be."
I kind of figured.
As I closed the book, a pile of envelopes, all stamped, fell out. One of them, stamped and unsealed, was addressed to "Angel Haskel." Now, let it be known that it's usually not good form to read someone else's mail, but the normal rules of etiquette go out the window when lives are on the line.
"Dear Angel," the letter began, "I never told you about the night you left. I'd gone out for groceries, and when I came home, you were gone. I was terrified. I was lost. I couldn't get a straight answer out of anybody. I must have driven for hours looking for you, but there was no sign. I got tired and kind of gave up. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I gave you up on that night. Please forgive me."
I found another one, marked "December 24th."
"Dear Angel, it's Christmas Eve. I remember when I was ten years old and I caught Momma putting presents under the tree. Broke my heart. Believing in Santa was the last bit of little-kid mystery left in the world. I'm looking up at the dark, winter sky right now, wishing that weren't true, wishing that old guy in the red suit would bring you home. I miss you so much. I got to go. He hates it when I write to you. I can hear him coming up the stairs."
As I read those words, I too heard footsteps. It was Peter Watts.
"Did you find something?" he asked.
"Just some letters. I think they're to her father," I replied.
"Records show that his name was John Haskel. He split...long gone."
"Left some deep wounds, though."
We heard a car pull up. Through the window, a police car's red and blue lights flashed. It was Bigelow, with news for us. "We found Jim Gilroy's car, in Springdale, Arkansas, about two hours south from here."
If my suspicions were right...and they usually are...then we had to catch up to our lead in a hurry.
We got to Springdale just as a tow truck pulled the car out of the water. Two troopers busted open the trunk with crowbars. Inside was Jim Gilroy, nee Jake Waterston, his face badly bruised and bloodied, his lungs full of water, and a bullet hole in his thigh.
Jim, Jim, Jake...Karma's a bitch, don't you think?
==========================================================
A couple of hours later, Peter and I paid him a visit at the hospital.
They'd put him in the jail ward. Bigelow and a trooper named Flanagan were in there, grilling him. Sad to say, they were getting nowhere: the jailbird refused to sing. I decided to make my move.
"Who was Maddie riding with?" I asked. He feigned ignorance, but I knew better.
"I know you," I continued. "You used to live at 898 Gadsden Place, Newport News, Virginia. You worked at a mill by the docks, and drove a '73 Impala. Your real name is Jake Waterston and you killed three women. You have no reason to lie."
I saw it in his eyes: he knew the game was up. "They beat me and left me in the trunk. Ever stop to think that I'd be dead if not for the air pocket in there?"
"Not in the way you do. Who's Maddie riding with?"
"Her boyfriend, Bobby Webber. He got me 'cause I wasn't ready for him."
"What did you do to Maddie?"
"Nothin'."
"You killed her mother."
"That hothead? She killed herself."
"You let her. You perpetrated the abuse on Maddie."
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Peter Watts coming in through the security gate. Time to play my last card.
"Who's 'Angel'?"
No reply. Of course.
I knew I wouldn't get any more out of him, so I took my leave of him and went to talk to Peter. He turned out to have some good news.
"I found Maddie's father. Turns out he was an inmate at the Fond du Lac Correctional Institute in Waupan, Missouri. He died there last year, and he's buried in an unmarked grave in a potter's field close to the prison."
"...Maddie must be after something else," I said, almost to myself, as I left the hospital. I needed some cool air, and time to turn things over in my head.
My mind flashed back to those letters. She must have known that her father was dead. The writing of those letters didn't add up, though. She'd written them in the present tense. Were they a confessional...an oral history...or...or...
The answer hit me like a strong vodka-and-tonic, but I'd need Maddie's medical records before I could confirm my suspicions.
==========================================================
Later the next day, at about 6:30 in the morning, we gathered at the Arkansas State Police headquarters, and sat down to look at Maddie's medical records.
Sure enough, we found a birth certificate from St. Mary's Hospital for Angel Webber, born on July 14th. Neither of us knew what had happened to the baby, but I had an idea...an unpleasant one, I admit. Just to be sure, I'd need to access Jim Gilroy's bank records. Peter Watts found a phone line and set up an Internet connection with his laptop.
A few minutes later, he'd found something. About ten months ago, Jim Gilroy received $7,000.00 in his bank account...wire transfer. It was only two months after Angel was born. I could only conclude that he'd bought Maddie's baby, sold it, and bought himself a TV. The wire-transfer came from the account of a lawyer named Rudolph Barnard.
A little more investigation revealed that Angel was adopted by the Travis family in Little Rock. The state police immediately sent out three squad cars after they placed a call and got no answer.
==========================================================
By the time Watts and I got there, it was already a hostage situation. The cars were lined up outside the house, parallel to each other, and the cops all had their sights at the front door. Oh, it was tense, I tell you--nobody dared to even so much as breathe, lest some fool pulled their trigger too soon.
In a split second, the sharp CRACK of a freshly-fired gun popped the atmosphere around us like a pin to a child's balloon. Somewhere around me, a radio blared out a frantic set of orders.
The door opened. Out came Maddie, her face totally blank and her lower lip bleeding slightly. I begged the firing-squad around me to stay their execution, and I ran to her. "It's over, Maddie," I said, as I took the gun from her limp hands. No resistance at all.
A quick peek inside showed me everything I needed to know: The Travises were still holding the baby, and Bobby, at the foot of the stairs, was dead. Looks like she took his gun, then he hit her; and finally she'd had enough and gave him what was coming to him.
No more problems.
========================================================
A little while later, I paid Maddie a visit, had a friendly chat. We were in a small interrogation room at the prison where she was serving her sentence.
"The Travises send me a picture once in a while," she began. "I asked them not to tell Angel anything about his mother...He'd have just grown up to be another Bobby, another Jim, another man just like my father. You saved me that day...You're the only man in my life that ever did anything nice for me."
A guard interrupted us. Time's up.
"I spend my time thinking of Angel. Prayin' that he ain't thinkin' of me."
Sometimes, you see, happy endings aren't always what you'd think they should be.
=======================================================================
COMMENTARY
Most of Millennium's first-season episodes follow a "catch-the-serial-killer" template, usually with some other kind of twist thrown in for good measure. The first few episodes--"Pilot" up to about "Blood Relatives"--have been pretty straightforward, but now we're starting to see the series work its magic with other narratives and genres.
This episode, "The Wild and the Innocent," is a sequel to and inversion of "Blood Relatives," in that it's about a young mother, on the run from the law, searching for her biological infant son, whereas the earlier episode involved a young man in a halfway-house searching for his long-lost birth mother. Interestingly, both episodes end in the same way: the mother rejects the child. In "Blood Relatives," it's because she wants nothing to do with him having seen what's become of him; in "The Wild and the Innocent," it's because she realizes that he's better off with his adoptive parents.
...Actually, the episode is also playing with another narrative, that of "the killer from the hero's past returns and starts killing again." Considering that this is Millennium we're talking about, there's a twist: The killer is the victim this time around, having nearly drowned in the trunk of a sinking car.
There's honestly little else I can say about this one, other than "it's extremely dull." There's little of any value for me to comment on, and even the esteemed Lance Henriksen seems to be phoning it in.
What's more, he and Terry O'Quinn (Peter Watts) are at times saddled with ludicrous dialogue that no human being would ever spout in real life (O'Quinn, perhaps channeling Mr. Spock: "...The morticians were unable to satisfactorily reconstruct the bodies." Henriksen, as Captain Obvious: "An inordinate amount of violence and suffering has occurred in this house.").
Worse still, the lines are delivered in the most deadly-serious way possible, and the whole affair inadvertently takes a turn for the hilarious. Seriously, I just burst into hysterics whenever I read those lines!
All in all, "The Wild and the Innocent" could have used another revision or two.
Hopefully, the series will pick up some steam again come next episode.
====================================================================
(Millennium copyright Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All screenshots are property of Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All rights reserved. Special thanks to Millennium--This Is Who We Are for episode transcripts, which helped me adapt the episodes.)
This episode, "The Wild and the Innocent," is a sequel to and inversion of "Blood Relatives," in that it's about a young mother, on the run from the law, searching for her biological infant son, whereas the earlier episode involved a young man in a halfway-house searching for his long-lost birth mother. Interestingly, both episodes end in the same way: the mother rejects the child. In "Blood Relatives," it's because she wants nothing to do with him having seen what's become of him; in "The Wild and the Innocent," it's because she realizes that he's better off with his adoptive parents.
...Actually, the episode is also playing with another narrative, that of "the killer from the hero's past returns and starts killing again." Considering that this is Millennium we're talking about, there's a twist: The killer is the victim this time around, having nearly drowned in the trunk of a sinking car.
There's honestly little else I can say about this one, other than "it's extremely dull." There's little of any value for me to comment on, and even the esteemed Lance Henriksen seems to be phoning it in.
What's more, he and Terry O'Quinn (Peter Watts) are at times saddled with ludicrous dialogue that no human being would ever spout in real life (O'Quinn, perhaps channeling Mr. Spock: "...The morticians were unable to satisfactorily reconstruct the bodies." Henriksen, as Captain Obvious: "An inordinate amount of violence and suffering has occurred in this house.").
Worse still, the lines are delivered in the most deadly-serious way possible, and the whole affair inadvertently takes a turn for the hilarious. Seriously, I just burst into hysterics whenever I read those lines!
All in all, "The Wild and the Innocent" could have used another revision or two.
Hopefully, the series will pick up some steam again come next episode.
====================================================================
(Millennium copyright Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All screenshots are property of Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All rights reserved. Special thanks to Millennium--This Is Who We Are for episode transcripts, which helped me adapt the episodes.)
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Millennium, S1E9: "Wide Open"
"Open House." Two words with so many meanings. Most commonly, they're meant to welcome a new family into a new home. The prospective buyers get to go in and see every pipe, every duct, every alarm system, every closet...every weakness.
I'm sorry to say it, but there's always one guy who threatens to make life miserable for everyone. A long time ago--then again, everything's "a long time ago"--there was this guy named Cutter, who stalked his prey from within after an open house. Here, take yourself a seat. I'll get you a drink and tell you all about this one.
===================================================
I got to the house the morning after a horrific crime had occurred there, having seen the first few seconds of a morning news report.
The current family--John, Mary Kay, and Patricia Highsmith--were about to move out. Before I went into the living room, I put a couple of those paper covers over my shoes, like the kind you see surgeons wear. Wouldn't want anyone to get a false positive from my footprints.
As for the living room...It wasn't a pretty sight, let's say that much. John and Mary Kay Highsmith lay there, covered by white sheets. There was blood on the carpet. The decorative iron screen from the fireplace had gotten knocked out of place in the struggle.
And there was Bletch, ready to fill me in. He told me that the murder weapon was "an antique hatchet," and that the house had an alarm system like the kind you started seeing commercials for around that time. I thought it might have been a burglary, but he said that nothing had been robbed. The security company got there about five minutes after the alarm system they'd installed went off.
Question: How does a guy break into a house with an alarm system?
Answer: He doesn't break in; he waits inside and trips the alarm as he's getting out.
Bletch shook me out of a vision of the killing and asked me about a little girl. There, at the foot of the stairs, was something I didn't notice earlier: a small stuffed bear, white fur. I went over to it and picked it up...and I heard a whimpering noise to my left. Under a corner table, there was a vent cover.
"Bletch!" I hollered. "I need a screwdriver!" He gave me his penknife--good enough for the moment--and I unscrewed the cover. Behind it was little Patricia Highsmith, alive, but in shock and terrified out of her wits. I stayed and held her while Bletch called for an emergency response team.
We went with her all the way to the hospital, and still stayed to watch over her. Cath came to see us a little bit later on. Bletch wanted to start questioning Patricia, but Cath warned him not to start in too soon. "What she's been through, no-one--child or adult--should have to experience. If she's asked to talk about it, it's like asking her to relive it," she said.
====================================================
Meanwhile, at the Public Safety building, a detective named James Glen held conference with the others. We were all poring over the guestbook, which included among the real guests such notables as Abraham Lincoln (!), Muhammad Ali (!!), and Elvis Presley (!!!).
One of the names caught my eye--John Allworth. Glen pointed out that his name had been signed two weeks prior to the open house...he was obviously casing the home. We noticed something about his signature: it looked deliberate, forceful, as if he were trying to contain his terrible rage.
Bletch guessed that the name and the address he'd left behind were bogus. "Well, if his name isn't John Allworth, maybe it's somebody he knows or somebody who knows him," I pointed out. "He's a risk-taker, but he's deliberate. He left the girl alive for a reason. He signed his name as 'John Allworth' for a reason. We'll catch him if we can find out what that reason is."
I picked myself up and staggered over to the balcony. Bob Bletcher stood on the first floor and surveyed the grisly scene.
"Guess one of us ought to call the paramedics," he said.
"Do you remember the number?" I asked.
"Not offhand," he shrugged.
Of course, I went and called for an ambulance.
======================================================
Bob and I were at the hospital the next day--just visiting. Catherine had just told me that a foster home had been found for Patricia, and that she'd keep tabs for a while.
"That guy we caught," Bob suddenly said, "His parents shipped him out. Watched his aunt and uncle get tortured by some farmhand. Makes you wonder."
I reminded him that killers aren't born.
The door opened. Jordan and Patricia came out. Seems they'd made friends pretty quickly. Bob took them to the car--Jordan was headed home, and Patricia was headed to her new home.
It's comforting to know that something good can come out of even the most horrifying tragedies.
=====================================================================
I'm sorry to say it, but there's always one guy who threatens to make life miserable for everyone. A long time ago--then again, everything's "a long time ago"--there was this guy named Cutter, who stalked his prey from within after an open house. Here, take yourself a seat. I'll get you a drink and tell you all about this one.
===================================================
==============================================================="His children are far from safety; they shall be crushed at the gate without a rescuer."--Job 5:4
I got to the house the morning after a horrific crime had occurred there, having seen the first few seconds of a morning news report.
The current family--John, Mary Kay, and Patricia Highsmith--were about to move out. Before I went into the living room, I put a couple of those paper covers over my shoes, like the kind you see surgeons wear. Wouldn't want anyone to get a false positive from my footprints.
As for the living room...It wasn't a pretty sight, let's say that much. John and Mary Kay Highsmith lay there, covered by white sheets. There was blood on the carpet. The decorative iron screen from the fireplace had gotten knocked out of place in the struggle.
And there was Bletch, ready to fill me in. He told me that the murder weapon was "an antique hatchet," and that the house had an alarm system like the kind you started seeing commercials for around that time. I thought it might have been a burglary, but he said that nothing had been robbed. The security company got there about five minutes after the alarm system they'd installed went off.
Question: How does a guy break into a house with an alarm system?
Answer: He doesn't break in; he waits inside and trips the alarm as he's getting out.
Bletch shook me out of a vision of the killing and asked me about a little girl. There, at the foot of the stairs, was something I didn't notice earlier: a small stuffed bear, white fur. I went over to it and picked it up...and I heard a whimpering noise to my left. Under a corner table, there was a vent cover.
"Bletch!" I hollered. "I need a screwdriver!" He gave me his penknife--good enough for the moment--and I unscrewed the cover. Behind it was little Patricia Highsmith, alive, but in shock and terrified out of her wits. I stayed and held her while Bletch called for an emergency response team.
====================================================
Meanwhile, at the Public Safety building, a detective named James Glen held conference with the others. We were all poring over the guestbook, which included among the real guests such notables as Abraham Lincoln (!), Muhammad Ali (!!), and Elvis Presley (!!!).
One of the names caught my eye--John Allworth. Glen pointed out that his name had been signed two weeks prior to the open house...he was obviously casing the home. We noticed something about his signature: it looked deliberate, forceful, as if he were trying to contain his terrible rage.
Bletch guessed that the name and the address he'd left behind were bogus. "Well, if his name isn't John Allworth, maybe it's somebody he knows or somebody who knows him," I pointed out. "He's a risk-taker, but he's deliberate. He left the girl alive for a reason. He signed his name as 'John Allworth' for a reason. We'll catch him if we can find out what that reason is."
Jack Giebelhouse offered to go down to that address: an apartment building in a really skeezy part of town. Allworth's place was listed as #440. Naturally, nobody was home, so he tried #444, and found himself talking to an old man called Mr. Marcelli. Their little chat bore no fruit.
When he came back from his little stroll, Giebs joined us--Glen, Bletch, and me--in the conference room. On a roll-down screen, the kind you see in high-school classrooms, we looked at slides of pages from several different open-house guestbooks. Several of the names, including "Travis Bickle" and "Rudyard Holmbast," matched our John Allworth's signature.
"So what?" Bletch demanded. "You want us to go knock on his door too? I mean, what if it was just random? What if he chose his victims because they were the most convenient?"
Oh, Bletch...You can be remarkably dense, you know that, right?
"Either possibility will tell us something about him," I said. "You don't have much else to go on at this point."
"There's the little girl," he corrected me. I cannot believe he's still going to pursue that line of thought, I said to myself. In my book, she's our absolute last resort.
I don't even feel like raising my objections. Bonehead Bletcher can go ahead with it if he wants to.
It's on him, not me.
I don't even feel like raising my objections. Bonehead Bletcher can go ahead with it if he wants to.
It's on him, not me.
=====================================================
We took another look at the crime scene. Bletch must have finally come around and seen things my way. Still, he wondered what we'd find that the lab techs didn't.
I pointed out that, even if we didn't find anything they didn't, at least we'd have a fresh perspective.
We went up to Patricia's room. Typical pink girl's room, complete with stuffed toys and a dollhouse. The bed was a mess, and a painting by the dollhouse hung on the wall at an odd angle. There was a dresser with a TV and a lamp on it. The lamp was knocked over, and there were a couple of A/V cables coming out of the TV.
In my mind's eye, I could see her struggling and hear her screams. And I realized: our suspect took the VCR. Bletch dismissed it as burglary, but I disagreed. I went over to an armoire to look for more clues, and I found a camcorder box. Empty.
Where is this going?
Later on, the three of us got a nasty surprise. Ms. Beverly Bunn, the broker for the Highsmith house, had sent us a tape of a man slaughtering Mary Kay Highsmith. I can only assume that he filmed it with the camcorder from the empty box I found.
You'd think I'd be used to this kind of stuff, but I'd never wish that on anyone, not even the worst of the madmen I chase.
====================================================
The next day, we got another call. Open house, same as before, except he didn't trip the alarm this time. I suggested taking a look at the keypad, dusting for prints.
There wasn't much left of the realtor. From the look of her, I'd say he shot her point-blank with a 12-gauge shotgun...which Bletch hadn't found.
"He takes chances," I said, "but everything's considered, as if scripted, planned. What to leave; what to take; what he wants us to see; what he wants others to see. He's leaving records of the events: videos, 911 calls, witnesses."
I lifted the welcome mat. Underneath it, I found a red "X" painted on the ceramic tile. Think I might find that again later on...
Later that afternoon, I was in the basement, reviewing that videotape. Horrible...but I had to keep looking. There's something here we've all missed. I rewound to the beginning and watched the first minute or so, which was shot upside down.
...What's that? I zoomed in and turned the image right-side up. It was a breakthrough: The killer's face, as seen through the glass panel of a door.
The phone rang. It was Bletch, with some news: The stolen video camera, the one from the empty box I found, was discovered at a pawn-shop in Bellingham. In return, I told him about the face I'd just discovered.
"You still adamant about not showing anything to the little girl?" Bob demanded. I stopped for a moment, unsure. Normally, I'd play every card in my hand, but as soon as children get involved, there's a line. Cross the line, and I'm no better than the killers I chase..
"I'm considering it, Bob." I hoped I could at least placate him while stalling on my decision.
===================================================
I heard the front door open. 'Must be Cath and Jordan,' I thought as I put my work away and headed upstairs. As soon as I reached the kitchen, a small whirlwind on four legs charged between my feet. Our puppy, Bennie, was overjoyed to see Jordan.
"How was your day, Jordan?" I asked, a big smile on my face.
Before she could begin, Cath interrupted her: "First, we're going to go upstairs and take a bath and get those little piggies of hers all cleaned up." My daughter's hands were indeed filthy. "How'd those little piggies get so dirty?" I asked. "At school," she giggled as she ran upstairs.
Once the little tyke was out of sight, Catherine produced some drawings out of her briefcase. "Patricia's," she explained. Their childlike nature made them all the more unsettling. First, there was a large, sad face. Next, there were two small figures, their torsos colored with red crayon (I assumed those were supposed to be her parents). Beside them stood a larger figure with a big red "X" emblazoned on his chest.
Catherine was a little confused about the significance of the X. "The man we're looking for left a red X just like this at the second crime scene," I explained as I showed her the picture of I'd printed. "An image to work from."
"You want my permission," Catherine concluded. I could tell that she felt the same way as I do. "Maybe she knows him," I countered. "Maybe it's a neighbor, someone the family comes into contact with."
Our options seemed to have run out. "I'll do it," she said, resigned. "I'll do it if you think it's the only way."
And then, I realized. "No. That's what he wants--for us to use the child. Bringing her the clues--the video, the audiotape--We'd be forcing her to relive that moment. It's probably something he's relived all his life."
I called Bob Bletcher. When he answered, I said, "I want to talk to you and your men. I don't want anyone going to see Patricia Highsmith. Promise me."
"But she's the key," Bletch protested.
"Yes," I shot back, "but not in the way we thought."
====================================================
That night, I was at a meeting with Bob and Jack Giebelhouse. They found out that his real name was "Cutter." How appropriate.
Earlier in the day, they'd led a SWAT team to Cutter's empty apartment. Earlier than that, a couple of kids found a 12-gauge shotgun in a garbage can across the street from their school. They told the crossing guard, and he called it in. Here's the really twisted part: The man we were after was the crossing guard.
"He hasn't left the city," I said. "He left us the shotgun to lead us to his apartment, to prove that we couldn't find him."
Bob was indignant. "Two hours earlier, and the officer who took his report would have seen his picture."
"He's running now," I said. "He's gone off to gloat, to plan his next move." Bob wanted to put him in the papers, so that everyone would recognize him. "Don't make him too famous," I cautioned. "He'll disappear on us altogether. No...We have until Saturday to figure out how he's going to up the ante."
"For God's sake, he's working as a crossing guard," Giebs sighed.
"He wants that girl to relive a nightmare," I said. "How does he up the stakes?"
"He wants us all to relive it," Bob said.
Later that night, I went out to the front porch to get some air, and Cath came to join me.
"I was just thinking about my parents--my grandparents," I mused. "Forty, fifty years ago, they never locked their doors, day or night. We seem to have accepted it so gracefully, so naturally...the security systems. We've allowed ourselves to become almost besieged by our own fear."
Cath tried to reassure me. "If you're not afraid, you're living in denial. The world's changed."
"I know," I said. "I just wonder: Where are we headed from here?"
=====================================================
We staked out the new house in the morning. Giebs posed as a visitor, while Bletch and I set up shop in a locked room with a few other cops. Small radios allowed us to keep in touch.
Giebs' initial search gave us nothing. "Either he got a whiff of us or he beat it out of town," Bob sighed. "I really don't think this is going to happen."
Suddenly our radios crackled to life. "Entryway, white male, tall, glasses," Giebs whispered. "Can't tell if it's our guy or not."
"Give him lots of space," I said.
We heard Cutter and the realtor make small talk over the radio as Giebs said, "If it's him, he's heading right to you."
The radio went dead for a few seconds. Giebs reported in again, his voice slightly panicked. "Olly-olly-oxen, he's going upstairs." Why the sudden change? Did Cutter notice him?
We quietly headed up the stairs. Our attempt at surprise fell flat, though, as we heard Giebs ask the realtor where Cutter went. "He's using the bathroom," she said.
Sure enough, he went out through the bathroom window.
======================================================
That evening, Bob and I took our cops back to the house. The two of us staked out the house for five-and-a-half long, weary hours while Seattle's finest searched the house.
"This guy booked it, Frank," Bob groaned. "I'm telling you, he's gone with the wind."
"I don't think so," I protested. "Get the blue-and-whites out of here. Then, you and I are going for a little walk."
We searched the neighborhood for a while, looking for anything suspicious. As we went past one of the houses, I got a funny feeling, like I was being watched. Warily, I tried going around the house.
A dog barked...German Shepherd, to be exact. Poor guy got locked out of the house, 'cause he was up on his hind legs, scratching at the door.
He noticed us and ran up to us, barking like crazy. Bletch found some candy in his pocket (thankfully, not chocolate--dogs and chocolate don't mix, you know) and distracted him while I went inside.
The screen on the security system's keypad said "Door Ajar: Section Five." Curious, I popped the little panel open. Nobody set off the alarm...nobody set it either, for that matter.
He was here, though. He'd found a picture of the family who lived here--husband, wife, young son. I felt myself fall out of the room and into his mind. It was a scene from his childhood, etched into his mind's eye with a branding iron.
We took another look at the crime scene. Bletch must have finally come around and seen things my way. Still, he wondered what we'd find that the lab techs didn't.
I pointed out that, even if we didn't find anything they didn't, at least we'd have a fresh perspective.
We went up to Patricia's room. Typical pink girl's room, complete with stuffed toys and a dollhouse. The bed was a mess, and a painting by the dollhouse hung on the wall at an odd angle. There was a dresser with a TV and a lamp on it. The lamp was knocked over, and there were a couple of A/V cables coming out of the TV.
In my mind's eye, I could see her struggling and hear her screams. And I realized: our suspect took the VCR. Bletch dismissed it as burglary, but I disagreed. I went over to an armoire to look for more clues, and I found a camcorder box. Empty.
Where is this going?
Later on, the three of us got a nasty surprise. Ms. Beverly Bunn, the broker for the Highsmith house, had sent us a tape of a man slaughtering Mary Kay Highsmith. I can only assume that he filmed it with the camcorder from the empty box I found.
You'd think I'd be used to this kind of stuff, but I'd never wish that on anyone, not even the worst of the madmen I chase.
====================================================
The next day, we got another call. Open house, same as before, except he didn't trip the alarm this time. I suggested taking a look at the keypad, dusting for prints.
There wasn't much left of the realtor. From the look of her, I'd say he shot her point-blank with a 12-gauge shotgun...which Bletch hadn't found.
"He takes chances," I said, "but everything's considered, as if scripted, planned. What to leave; what to take; what he wants us to see; what he wants others to see. He's leaving records of the events: videos, 911 calls, witnesses."
I lifted the welcome mat. Underneath it, I found a red "X" painted on the ceramic tile. Think I might find that again later on...
Later that afternoon, I was in the basement, reviewing that videotape. Horrible...but I had to keep looking. There's something here we've all missed. I rewound to the beginning and watched the first minute or so, which was shot upside down.
...What's that? I zoomed in and turned the image right-side up. It was a breakthrough: The killer's face, as seen through the glass panel of a door.
The phone rang. It was Bletch, with some news: The stolen video camera, the one from the empty box I found, was discovered at a pawn-shop in Bellingham. In return, I told him about the face I'd just discovered.
"You still adamant about not showing anything to the little girl?" Bob demanded. I stopped for a moment, unsure. Normally, I'd play every card in my hand, but as soon as children get involved, there's a line. Cross the line, and I'm no better than the killers I chase..
"I'm considering it, Bob." I hoped I could at least placate him while stalling on my decision.
===================================================
I heard the front door open. 'Must be Cath and Jordan,' I thought as I put my work away and headed upstairs. As soon as I reached the kitchen, a small whirlwind on four legs charged between my feet. Our puppy, Bennie, was overjoyed to see Jordan.
"How was your day, Jordan?" I asked, a big smile on my face.
Before she could begin, Cath interrupted her: "First, we're going to go upstairs and take a bath and get those little piggies of hers all cleaned up." My daughter's hands were indeed filthy. "How'd those little piggies get so dirty?" I asked. "At school," she giggled as she ran upstairs.
Once the little tyke was out of sight, Catherine produced some drawings out of her briefcase. "Patricia's," she explained. Their childlike nature made them all the more unsettling. First, there was a large, sad face. Next, there were two small figures, their torsos colored with red crayon (I assumed those were supposed to be her parents). Beside them stood a larger figure with a big red "X" emblazoned on his chest.
Catherine was a little confused about the significance of the X. "The man we're looking for left a red X just like this at the second crime scene," I explained as I showed her the picture of I'd printed. "An image to work from."
"You want my permission," Catherine concluded. I could tell that she felt the same way as I do. "Maybe she knows him," I countered. "Maybe it's a neighbor, someone the family comes into contact with."
Our options seemed to have run out. "I'll do it," she said, resigned. "I'll do it if you think it's the only way."
And then, I realized. "No. That's what he wants--for us to use the child. Bringing her the clues--the video, the audiotape--We'd be forcing her to relive that moment. It's probably something he's relived all his life."
I called Bob Bletcher. When he answered, I said, "I want to talk to you and your men. I don't want anyone going to see Patricia Highsmith. Promise me."
"But she's the key," Bletch protested.
"Yes," I shot back, "but not in the way we thought."
====================================================
That night, I was at a meeting with Bob and Jack Giebelhouse. They found out that his real name was "Cutter." How appropriate.
Earlier in the day, they'd led a SWAT team to Cutter's empty apartment. Earlier than that, a couple of kids found a 12-gauge shotgun in a garbage can across the street from their school. They told the crossing guard, and he called it in. Here's the really twisted part: The man we were after was the crossing guard.
"He hasn't left the city," I said. "He left us the shotgun to lead us to his apartment, to prove that we couldn't find him."
Bob was indignant. "Two hours earlier, and the officer who took his report would have seen his picture."
"He's running now," I said. "He's gone off to gloat, to plan his next move." Bob wanted to put him in the papers, so that everyone would recognize him. "Don't make him too famous," I cautioned. "He'll disappear on us altogether. No...We have until Saturday to figure out how he's going to up the ante."
"For God's sake, he's working as a crossing guard," Giebs sighed.
"He wants that girl to relive a nightmare," I said. "How does he up the stakes?"
"He wants us all to relive it," Bob said.
Later that night, I went out to the front porch to get some air, and Cath came to join me.
"I was just thinking about my parents--my grandparents," I mused. "Forty, fifty years ago, they never locked their doors, day or night. We seem to have accepted it so gracefully, so naturally...the security systems. We've allowed ourselves to become almost besieged by our own fear."
Cath tried to reassure me. "If you're not afraid, you're living in denial. The world's changed."
"I know," I said. "I just wonder: Where are we headed from here?"
=====================================================
We staked out the new house in the morning. Giebs posed as a visitor, while Bletch and I set up shop in a locked room with a few other cops. Small radios allowed us to keep in touch.
Giebs' initial search gave us nothing. "Either he got a whiff of us or he beat it out of town," Bob sighed. "I really don't think this is going to happen."
Suddenly our radios crackled to life. "Entryway, white male, tall, glasses," Giebs whispered. "Can't tell if it's our guy or not."
"Give him lots of space," I said.
We heard Cutter and the realtor make small talk over the radio as Giebs said, "If it's him, he's heading right to you."
The radio went dead for a few seconds. Giebs reported in again, his voice slightly panicked. "Olly-olly-oxen, he's going upstairs." Why the sudden change? Did Cutter notice him?
We quietly headed up the stairs. Our attempt at surprise fell flat, though, as we heard Giebs ask the realtor where Cutter went. "He's using the bathroom," she said.
Sure enough, he went out through the bathroom window.
======================================================
That evening, Bob and I took our cops back to the house. The two of us staked out the house for five-and-a-half long, weary hours while Seattle's finest searched the house.
"This guy booked it, Frank," Bob groaned. "I'm telling you, he's gone with the wind."
"I don't think so," I protested. "Get the blue-and-whites out of here. Then, you and I are going for a little walk."
We searched the neighborhood for a while, looking for anything suspicious. As we went past one of the houses, I got a funny feeling, like I was being watched. Warily, I tried going around the house.
A dog barked...German Shepherd, to be exact. Poor guy got locked out of the house, 'cause he was up on his hind legs, scratching at the door.
He noticed us and ran up to us, barking like crazy. Bletch found some candy in his pocket (thankfully, not chocolate--dogs and chocolate don't mix, you know) and distracted him while I went inside.
The screen on the security system's keypad said "Door Ajar: Section Five." Curious, I popped the little panel open. Nobody set off the alarm...nobody set it either, for that matter.
He was here, though. He'd found a picture of the family who lived here--husband, wife, young son. I felt myself fall out of the room and into his mind. It was a scene from his childhood, etched into his mind's eye with a branding iron.
He was just a boy. I could see his terror and hear his screams as a man opened an air vent and screwed the cover back into place. Then, he went and slaughtered the boy's parents while they were asleep in their beds.
Then, clarity: He relives that day over and over again, and he wants everyone around him to join in that. The security systems, the camcorder, the crossing guard; it all fits: He wants us to feel as absolutely helpless as he did. No matter how "secure" we make ourselves, someone who's really with-it will come along and turn it into a sick joke.
The sound of Bob coming into the house snapped me out of my vision. I crept up the stairs, and when I hit the third floor, I heard muffled whimpers. The sound led me to a closed door. Inside, I found the couple from the picture, bound and gagged but still very much alive.
A quick look up rewarded me with the sight of Cutter's reflection in the window. 'Is that a lead pipe in his hands, or is he just happy to see me?' I thought to myself as he struck me across the face with it. Stars danced in my eyes as I tried to get up. He took another swing, but missed as I rolled out of its path. The next two caught me in the shoulder and in the ribs.
He tried to go for the killing blow, but stopped when something down the hall growled. It was the dog from outside! Cutter dropped the pipe (so much for all his smarts earlier) and bolted. Rin-Tin-Tin gave chase and cornered him at the third-floor balcony.
And then--I kid you not, this is really what happened--the dog got up on his hind legs and shoved Cutter off the balcony. Down he fell to the first floor, where a glass-topped table broke his fall.
Then, clarity: He relives that day over and over again, and he wants everyone around him to join in that. The security systems, the camcorder, the crossing guard; it all fits: He wants us to feel as absolutely helpless as he did. No matter how "secure" we make ourselves, someone who's really with-it will come along and turn it into a sick joke.
The sound of Bob coming into the house snapped me out of my vision. I crept up the stairs, and when I hit the third floor, I heard muffled whimpers. The sound led me to a closed door. Inside, I found the couple from the picture, bound and gagged but still very much alive.
A quick look up rewarded me with the sight of Cutter's reflection in the window. 'Is that a lead pipe in his hands, or is he just happy to see me?' I thought to myself as he struck me across the face with it. Stars danced in my eyes as I tried to get up. He took another swing, but missed as I rolled out of its path. The next two caught me in the shoulder and in the ribs.
He tried to go for the killing blow, but stopped when something down the hall growled. It was the dog from outside! Cutter dropped the pipe (so much for all his smarts earlier) and bolted. Rin-Tin-Tin gave chase and cornered him at the third-floor balcony.
And then--I kid you not, this is really what happened--the dog got up on his hind legs and shoved Cutter off the balcony. Down he fell to the first floor, where a glass-topped table broke his fall.
I picked myself up and staggered over to the balcony. Bob Bletcher stood on the first floor and surveyed the grisly scene.
"Guess one of us ought to call the paramedics," he said.
"Do you remember the number?" I asked.
"Not offhand," he shrugged.
Of course, I went and called for an ambulance.
======================================================
Bob and I were at the hospital the next day--just visiting. Catherine had just told me that a foster home had been found for Patricia, and that she'd keep tabs for a while.
"That guy we caught," Bob suddenly said, "His parents shipped him out. Watched his aunt and uncle get tortured by some farmhand. Makes you wonder."
I reminded him that killers aren't born.
The door opened. Jordan and Patricia came out. Seems they'd made friends pretty quickly. Bob took them to the car--Jordan was headed home, and Patricia was headed to her new home.
It's comforting to know that something good can come out of even the most horrifying tragedies.
=====================================================================
COMMENTARY
For almost every episode now, I'm just waiting to pull out the line, "And this is the point at which Millennium becomes a standard, run-of-the-mill procedural."
With "Open House," I once again have to eat my words, because there are quite a few interesting things to talk about.
Let's start at the very beginning. The first scene shows a group of boys playing football in the street. Their fun comes to an end when Cutter's car, a nondescript gray Ford (Taurus?), comes in as if from out of nowhere. Already we see that his arrival has brought the typical narrative to a halt, and he's about to supplant it with his own. Of course, the boys don't like his presence: one of them very faintly says, "Get out of our game."
At this point, there's nothing really out of the ordinary about him; he's just a guy looking to buy a house. It's when he gets out of the car that he starts to become a little strange. He barely speaks, and he shows a panther-like quality in his body language and movements...he's slow and methodical, drinking in his surroundings and dissecting them down to the slightest detail.
And then, when he's in the little girl's bedroom, he goes to the closet. On a rack of clothing, there's a tie-dyed shirt, and there are Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls on the shelf. A picture of innocence, one that triggers an unwelcome childhood memory. We see him as a little boy, screaming at some unseen horror.
We meet the family that's about to move out. On the surface, they're there to be killed, so they don't really get that much characterization. In fact, the only significant thing we see any of them do is turn on the home alarm system, and they don't know that someone is already inside.
Their final moments are an ADT commercial gone horribly wrong.
Before I go any further, I'll give you a very brief history of the company. Per Wikipedia:
In the beginning, there was the stock ticker, which was invented by a one Edward Calahan in 1863. Soon after he invented the device, he formed the Gold and Stock Telegraph Company so that he could profit from it.
Three years later, someone broke into his house, and he invented a telegraph-based alarm system, which he eventually shared with fifty of his neighbors. Basically, each of them had a system in each of their homes, and these systems were connected to one central dispatch station. Bear in mind, though, this was just in his district. There were many other small telegraph companies at that time; they eventually merged into "American District Telegraph."
Over the years, they specialized in security systems for banks and major department stores, but things don't get interesting until a British businessman entered the scene in the late 70s.
That businessman was Lord Michael Ashcroft, who in 1977 bought a camping-supply company called Hawley Goodall and morphed it into a service and staffing company. Ten years later, he bought an Indiana-based company called "Crime Control, Inc." as well as ADT later that year.
This is when the ADT Corporation became a major powerhouse in America...and also when it started advertising. I remember when these commercials were broadcast several times a night. Almost every prime-time commercial break had at least one.
Here's their inaugural TV spot, courtesy YouTube user VaultMasterDBT (and presented here with kind permission):
As you can see, ADT's early commercials focused primarily on burglaries, and later commercials substituted burglars with angry ex-boyfriends (they looked a little bit like the climax of Episode 7, "Blood Relatives"). Whatever the situation, though, the "break-in" motif remained the same.
Also, the earlier ones were pretty heavy-handed, and I remember that they gradually softened over time. The stern, gravel-voiced, male announcer gave way to a softer female voice, and the grainy, lurid, "thief's-got-away" camerawork and narrative gave way to a "crime-in-progress/stopped-just-in-time" tone.
In the final analysis, though, ADT's products can only really offer an illusion of greater safety. Notice that the above commercial focuses solely on robberies and things being taken. "Wide Open's" first jab at the ADT narrative is Bob Bletcher saying that nothing had been stolen. Right away, the question is, "What kind of a burglar breaks into a house but doesn't steal anything?"
We then learn that the suspect tripped the security system on his way out. With that, our illusions of safety are ripped to pieces and turned into a sick joke.
...Then, later on in the episode, there's a plot twist. He did steal something after all: A VCR and a handheld video camera, with which he recorded his butchering of Mr. and Mrs. Hightower. (It's also a classic "double-edged sword": The video footage gave away a reflection of his face, which Frank isolated and used to catch him.)
Camcorders first came out in the mid-1980s, concurrent with the then-recent introduction of VHS video tapes. They were popular enough (Back to the Future most notably used one as a major plot device), but the things themselves were heavy, unwieldy things that had to be worn on the shoulder and relied on large battery-packs for power. The one featured in "Wide Open," on the other hand, is remarkably smaller and lighter than the one from Back to the Future. This is because camcorders from the 1990s used smaller, specialized videotapes, which could be hooked into an adapter and played on a standard VCR.
VCRs, of course, were the dominant home-video technology of the 80s and 90s. By 1996/97, they'd become cheap enough that every department store had one...so why did Cutter steal the one from the Highsmith house? The easiest answer is, "it was there." Or, perhaps, we're led to believe that this was his first actual kill, and it holds some intrinsic value for him.
Later on, he goes to the Emerald Shore real-estate office and gives a videotape to the realtor whom he'd met earlier. She puts it on, and it's the Highsmith murder. And it looks just like the opening shots of an ADT commercial.
Cutter has successfully invaded and taken over two narratives so far. The third? He works as a crossing guard, hiding in plain sight, ferrying schoolchildren across a busy street. Normally, one would think, "Oh, no, he's going to kidnap one of them or something," but his occupation doesn't come up until three-quarters through. Its only narrative function is to show why Patricia Highsmith put a big red "X" on his chest when she drew her parents' murder: his reflective vest had red "X" marks on them. She recognized him, because she saw him and his vest every day as she crossed that street.
All throughout the episode, Bob Bletcher and Frank Black lock horns about this little girl: Bob wants to interview her; Frank is determined to stall him, because he knows that doing so would give her parents' killer far more power than he should have. In the end, it was unnecessary, because Frank, who exists outside the usual police-procedural narrative, was able to find the murderer with the Millennium Group's image-manipulation technology.
Backing up for context: At the time, most commercial VCRs had fairly unreliable pause and freeze-frame equipment. Most of the time, it left a lot of white "snow" on the screen. That Frank was able to take a perfect freeze-frame from a camcorder video, and magnify it to the point where he could discern the reflection of Cutter's face, was nothing short of cutting-edge in 1996. I certainly don't think shows of the time, like NYPD Blue, ever used it to look for clues, and it didn't really see any traction on TV until CSI a decade later.
That being said, to make the case that Millennium is trying to predict the technology of a few years' time is to miss the point: It's noteworthy precisely because it doesn't otherwise exist within the world of Millennium. If the Millennium Group can provide him with equipment and software like this, then what else do they have at their disposal? What else can they do with it? We'd best keep an eye on them, for now...
Tune in next time when we cover Episode 10: "The Wild and the Innocent."
======================================================================
(Millennium copyright Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All screenshots are property of Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All rights reserved. Special thanks to Millennium--This Is Who We Are for episode transcripts, which helped me adapt the episodes.)
Let's start at the very beginning. The first scene shows a group of boys playing football in the street. Their fun comes to an end when Cutter's car, a nondescript gray Ford (Taurus?), comes in as if from out of nowhere. Already we see that his arrival has brought the typical narrative to a halt, and he's about to supplant it with his own. Of course, the boys don't like his presence: one of them very faintly says, "Get out of our game."
At this point, there's nothing really out of the ordinary about him; he's just a guy looking to buy a house. It's when he gets out of the car that he starts to become a little strange. He barely speaks, and he shows a panther-like quality in his body language and movements...he's slow and methodical, drinking in his surroundings and dissecting them down to the slightest detail.
And then, when he's in the little girl's bedroom, he goes to the closet. On a rack of clothing, there's a tie-dyed shirt, and there are Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls on the shelf. A picture of innocence, one that triggers an unwelcome childhood memory. We see him as a little boy, screaming at some unseen horror.
We meet the family that's about to move out. On the surface, they're there to be killed, so they don't really get that much characterization. In fact, the only significant thing we see any of them do is turn on the home alarm system, and they don't know that someone is already inside.
Their final moments are an ADT commercial gone horribly wrong.
Before I go any further, I'll give you a very brief history of the company. Per Wikipedia:
In the beginning, there was the stock ticker, which was invented by a one Edward Calahan in 1863. Soon after he invented the device, he formed the Gold and Stock Telegraph Company so that he could profit from it.
Three years later, someone broke into his house, and he invented a telegraph-based alarm system, which he eventually shared with fifty of his neighbors. Basically, each of them had a system in each of their homes, and these systems were connected to one central dispatch station. Bear in mind, though, this was just in his district. There were many other small telegraph companies at that time; they eventually merged into "American District Telegraph."
Over the years, they specialized in security systems for banks and major department stores, but things don't get interesting until a British businessman entered the scene in the late 70s.
That businessman was Lord Michael Ashcroft, who in 1977 bought a camping-supply company called Hawley Goodall and morphed it into a service and staffing company. Ten years later, he bought an Indiana-based company called "Crime Control, Inc." as well as ADT later that year.
This is when the ADT Corporation became a major powerhouse in America...and also when it started advertising. I remember when these commercials were broadcast several times a night. Almost every prime-time commercial break had at least one.
Here's their inaugural TV spot, courtesy YouTube user VaultMasterDBT (and presented here with kind permission):
As you can see, ADT's early commercials focused primarily on burglaries, and later commercials substituted burglars with angry ex-boyfriends (they looked a little bit like the climax of Episode 7, "Blood Relatives"). Whatever the situation, though, the "break-in" motif remained the same.
Also, the earlier ones were pretty heavy-handed, and I remember that they gradually softened over time. The stern, gravel-voiced, male announcer gave way to a softer female voice, and the grainy, lurid, "thief's-got-away" camerawork and narrative gave way to a "crime-in-progress/stopped-just-in-time" tone.
In the final analysis, though, ADT's products can only really offer an illusion of greater safety. Notice that the above commercial focuses solely on robberies and things being taken. "Wide Open's" first jab at the ADT narrative is Bob Bletcher saying that nothing had been stolen. Right away, the question is, "What kind of a burglar breaks into a house but doesn't steal anything?"
We then learn that the suspect tripped the security system on his way out. With that, our illusions of safety are ripped to pieces and turned into a sick joke.
...Then, later on in the episode, there's a plot twist. He did steal something after all: A VCR and a handheld video camera, with which he recorded his butchering of Mr. and Mrs. Hightower. (It's also a classic "double-edged sword": The video footage gave away a reflection of his face, which Frank isolated and used to catch him.)
Camcorders first came out in the mid-1980s, concurrent with the then-recent introduction of VHS video tapes. They were popular enough (Back to the Future most notably used one as a major plot device), but the things themselves were heavy, unwieldy things that had to be worn on the shoulder and relied on large battery-packs for power. The one featured in "Wide Open," on the other hand, is remarkably smaller and lighter than the one from Back to the Future. This is because camcorders from the 1990s used smaller, specialized videotapes, which could be hooked into an adapter and played on a standard VCR.
VCRs, of course, were the dominant home-video technology of the 80s and 90s. By 1996/97, they'd become cheap enough that every department store had one...so why did Cutter steal the one from the Highsmith house? The easiest answer is, "it was there." Or, perhaps, we're led to believe that this was his first actual kill, and it holds some intrinsic value for him.
Later on, he goes to the Emerald Shore real-estate office and gives a videotape to the realtor whom he'd met earlier. She puts it on, and it's the Highsmith murder. And it looks just like the opening shots of an ADT commercial.
Cutter has successfully invaded and taken over two narratives so far. The third? He works as a crossing guard, hiding in plain sight, ferrying schoolchildren across a busy street. Normally, one would think, "Oh, no, he's going to kidnap one of them or something," but his occupation doesn't come up until three-quarters through. Its only narrative function is to show why Patricia Highsmith put a big red "X" on his chest when she drew her parents' murder: his reflective vest had red "X" marks on them. She recognized him, because she saw him and his vest every day as she crossed that street.
All throughout the episode, Bob Bletcher and Frank Black lock horns about this little girl: Bob wants to interview her; Frank is determined to stall him, because he knows that doing so would give her parents' killer far more power than he should have. In the end, it was unnecessary, because Frank, who exists outside the usual police-procedural narrative, was able to find the murderer with the Millennium Group's image-manipulation technology.
Backing up for context: At the time, most commercial VCRs had fairly unreliable pause and freeze-frame equipment. Most of the time, it left a lot of white "snow" on the screen. That Frank was able to take a perfect freeze-frame from a camcorder video, and magnify it to the point where he could discern the reflection of Cutter's face, was nothing short of cutting-edge in 1996. I certainly don't think shows of the time, like NYPD Blue, ever used it to look for clues, and it didn't really see any traction on TV until CSI a decade later.
That being said, to make the case that Millennium is trying to predict the technology of a few years' time is to miss the point: It's noteworthy precisely because it doesn't otherwise exist within the world of Millennium. If the Millennium Group can provide him with equipment and software like this, then what else do they have at their disposal? What else can they do with it? We'd best keep an eye on them, for now...
Tune in next time when we cover Episode 10: "The Wild and the Innocent."
======================================================================
(Millennium copyright Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All screenshots are property of Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television. All rights reserved. Special thanks to Millennium--This Is Who We Are for episode transcripts, which helped me adapt the episodes.)
Tonight, we take a trip into the Museum's back catalog...
In an hour or so, the latest edition of the Academy Awards will begin.
We're going to celebrate the occasion with a post from the Museum's back catalog.
Get ready...
We're going to celebrate the occasion with a post from the Museum's back catalog.
Get ready...
Tonight’s the 85th Academy Awards ceremony, so put on your formals and get ready to wonder who will take home the awards? Will Denzel Washington win for “Flight?” Will “Lincoln” beat out “Amour” for Best Picture? Will “The Avengers” add to the comic-book adaptation’s brag sheet with a Visual Effects nomination? Stay tuned and find out!
But for now, let’s look back at the 72nd ceremony. Who hosted? Who won? Who had an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction? Get ready to find out, ‘cause we’re taking the DeLorean back to 2000!
83…84…85…86…87…88 MILES PER HOUR!!!!!!!
IN THE YEAR 2000…Billy Crystal hosted his ninth ceremony with great aplomb.
“American Beauty” took home five awards:
· Best Picture
· Best Director (Sam Mendes)
· Best Actor (Kevin Spacey)
· Best Original Screenplay (Alan Ball)
· Best Cinematography (Conrad L. Hall)
“American Beauty” did not win Best Actress (Annette Bening) or Best Original Score (Thomas Newman). Those awards, respectively, went to Hilary Swank for “Boys Don’t Cry” and “The Red Violin” (John Corigliano).
“The Matrix,” that other great surprise of 1999, won four:
- Best Sound Editing (Dane Davis)
- Best Sound Mixing (John T. Reitz, Gregg Rudloff, David E. Campbell and David Lee)
- Best Film Editing (Zach Staenberg), beating out “American Beauty”
- Best Visual Effects (John Gaeta, Janek Sirrs, Jon Thum and Steve Courtley)
Phil Collins’ “You’ll Be in my Heart,” from Disney’s adaptation of “Tarzan,” beat out Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s “Blame Canada” from “South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut,” which Robin Williams memorably and hilariously performed.
Tim Burton’s “Sleepy Hollow” won for Best Art Direction. Its award was a joint win for Rick Heinrich’s art direction (you may recognize his name from “The Nightmare Before Christmas,” for which he served as a visual consultant) and Peter Young’s set decoration.
“Topsy-Turvy,” a movie about the production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s “The Mikado,” won for Best Makeup (Christine Blundell and Trefor Proud) and Best Costume Design (the ironically-named Lindy Hemming—you know, like hemming-in clothing. Hello? Can I get some laughs? No? Ah, please yourselves, then.).
Michael Caine and Angelina Jolie took home Best Supporting Actor and Actress (“The Cider House Rules” and “Girl, Interrupted,” respectively).
There were many, many more awards handed out that night. Please go to http://www.oscars.org/awards/academyawards/legacy/ceremony/72nd.html for more information!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)