08x12 - Passion

[bunniefuu]

Male announcer:
In New York City's w*r on crime,

the worst criminal offenders
are pursued

by the detectives
of the major case squad.

These are their stories.

This is
a literary journal.

If you want to contribute,
you can take out our garbage

because it and your poetry
have a lot in common.

[Hangs up]

Bored and talentless
housewives

should spend more time
in bed with their husbands

and less on
the poems r us website.

They have
feelings, Jacob.

No, no, they have money,
and we're not a vanity press.

Not yet.

And by the way,
your latest epic...

Sucks.

You're gonna have to
stop this, Jacob.

We don't know
why Don is coming.

If it were
good news,

he would've told us
on the phone.

There once was
a man from Pawtucket...

How bad is it?

Have you looked
at the Dow recently?

Don...

Or the proposed cuts

and tax deductions
for charitable contributions?

You're cutting
all of our funding.

As soon as the endowment
bounces back, you've got--

just ease him
into it, okay?

[Sighs]

We should get going.

What's the point?

We'll work
it out, Jacob.

Don said the foundation will
reconsider for next quarter.

We have enough money
to publish this issue.

I hate readings.

You love readings.

They sell
subscriptions,

and you get to surround yourself
with pie-eyed sycophants.

You know,
maybe you shouldn't come.

You could, um,
go see Don.

Have a drink with him.

Why?

He has some discretion
at that damn foundation.

You know,
tease him or something.

Tease him.

What do women do
when they want something

from a man they don't
want to sleep with?

I believe
it's an ancient art.

Uh...

Never mind.
Forget I said anything.

[Chuckles]

I don't think straight
when I'm desperate.

Come on, let's go
get my ass kissed.

Do you really think
it would make a difference?

Lauren thinks I should
start with street scene.

I'm leaning
towards the lamb.

Lauren?

You used to worry
about Harold Bloom.

She understands
my work,

she keeps me from publicly
embarrassing myself.

Well, we all know
that's a full-time job.

That's
part of my charm.

Not the only part.

You know,

I hadn't been looking forward
to this reading.

We're on.
Yeah.

[Clears throat]

Good evening.

I'm Sandra Dunbar,

and I am a proud supporter
of the village quarterly,

and an even prouder supporter
of its editor in chief.

The distinguished poet
Jacob Garrety.

Now, I know you've
all been waiting,

so without further ado...

[Applause]

A thriving weed
behind a dog-proof fence.

A writhing dog
behind a screen of weeds.

The street needs people
less and less.

Their brave pursuits,
their wretched deeds.

They think the street
is there for them.

To bear their feet,
to bear them on.

"But bear with me,"
the pavement says,

"I'm here at night,
I'm here at dawn.

When you are here,
and when you're gone."

Her wallet was found
lying in the gutter. No cash.

ID says she's
Lauren Collins.

22.

Lived on Avenue C.

A woman over here on the third
floor heard a scream at 11:30.

By the time
she gets to the window,

the girl's down,
the perp--nowhere to be seen.

All right, well,
we'll need to canvas

all the apartments
facing the street.

You got it.
Thank you.

Thanks, Joey.

Blunt force trauma
to the cranium.

CSU found a brick
over there.

Looks to have
blood on it.

Well, there's no purse.
No cash in the wallet.

I don't think
it was a mugging.

Well, her clothes
are intact,

but we'll check
for sexual as*ault.

There's a stain
on her dress--looks promising.

Is that bruising
on the shoulder, there?

Yup. Here and here.
Somebody grabbed her.

Well, they fought,

somebody got mad,
and picked up a brick.

She doesn't look
like much of a fighter.

Which is
why she lost.

Keys are out.

What's this--poetry reading.
Jacob Garrety.

That's tonight.
9:00 to 11:00.

People actually
go to poetry readings?

Open bar reception
to follow.

There you go.

No!

Get your hands off me!

I just want to see
if it's her!

Who the hell's
in charge, here?

Sir, please,
calm down.

Calm down.

I don't need calm,

I just need someone
to tell me if it's Lauren.

Let me buy you
a cup of coffee.

No.

God, please, no.

This city.

Turns us into savages.

Do you know if Lauren
was having any problems?

What kind
of problems?

No, she wasn't
having any problems.

How long had she been
working for you, Mr. Garrity?

She worked with me.
She loved me, and I loved her.

I'm very sorry.

I should've
been with her.

These damn readings.

Students,
dilettantes,

miniscule minds
with overblown ambitions.

I can imagine.

Did Lauren leave
the reading early?

Lauren never made it
to the reading.

She had to, uh,
finish some proofing.

I see.

Well, why, then, may I ask,
were you heading down there

to the office
in the middle of the night?

To meet her.

I was...
Supposed to meet her.

But she'd left.

She was outside on the street,

outside the village quarterly
office when she was att*cked.

Maybe she got
tired of waiting.

But her keys were out,
which they would've been

if she was
on her way in.

So she'd been out.

Do you know
where she might've been?

Maybe she forgot something.
How would I know?

She was a phantom
of delight

when first she gleamed
upon my sight.

A lovely
apparition sent

to be a moment's
ornament.

Wordsworth.

I'm getting more press calls
about the village quarterly.

I thought poetry
was dead.

No, that's theater.

It's, uh,
one of the most

distinguished journals
in the city.

Meaning what?

A few thousand people buy it,
a couple hundred read it?

No, people like to put it
on their coffee tables.

Makes 'em feel smart.

And now it's giving
the intellectuals of the press

an excuse to write
about a pretty girl

who got her head
bashed in.

What have you got?

Uh, well, the prints on
the m*rder w*apon were smudged,

and within ten feet, CSU found
56 other random prints.

Footprints,
soil samples,

and various bodily fluids
of humans and animals.

Dump a body
on a city street,

keep the crime lab
busy for 1,000 years.

Rodgers found
something on the dress

like semen.

She's running it
through the database.

And we had coffee
with Jacob Garrety,

the quarterly's poet in chief
and the victim's lover.

No record,
but that's only because

pompous isn't
against the law.

Did he have
any thoughts

about who might've
wanted to hurt Ms. Collins?

Well, he sort of
ruled out Wordsworth.

This guy, the love of his life
is savagely m*rder*d,

and he's
reciting poetry.

It was all I could do
to keep from smacking him.

Find out if the victim
had any enemies.

The police told me
she was on her way in.

She'd been out.

She told me
she was going to see you.

What did you
tell the police?

Nothing, it's--

it's not like
I think you k*lled her.

You didn't k*ll her,
did you?

Of course not.

I saw her,
we talked, she left.

One of us
should tell the police.

Look, I don't
want the foundation

dragged into
the investigation.

Or your wife.

Look, there may be some funds
available for the quarterly.

You're offering me
a bribe.

I'm offering you
your precious magazine.

Do you want it
or not?

Shouldn't you be
looking in cr*ck houses?

Or bars
on the Bowery?

They're all million-dollar
condos now.

The fester prize

from the American academy
of poets.

I'm impressed.
Don't be.

Poets are just
one notch below Hollywood

in giving
self-congratulatory trinkets.

I don't know what
you think you'll find here.

Helpful if we know something
about the victim.

We edited
a magazine.

She read submissions,

worked with poets, printers,
readers, contributors--

and sent out
rejection letters.

Lauren screened out the ones
that were obviously crap.

We get hundreds
of submissions every week,

most of which
are written

by people who've
never even read a poem.

This one sent
his rejection form back.

You should be
ashamed of yourself.

Very neat.
Who's Wetherly?

He's not a writer,
he's a lunatic.

Drives us both crazy.

If I thought for a second
he would hurt Lauren,

I would have k*lled
the son of a bitch.

Hyperbole, right?

Well, of course
they wouldn't publish me.

They want me as far away
from their precious quarterly

as possible.

And why is that?

Jacob Garrety is a thief
and a fraud

and I have the proof.

[Clears throat]

Here is a poem
allegedly written

by Garrety,

and here is one of mine

that he rejected
from the quarterly.

You're saying he plagiarized
your poem?

[Clears throat]

Larceny would be
more accurate.

He had the gall to publish

in the December issue.

He didn't know
that I still read the magazine.

Yeah, I'm sorry,
mr. Wetherly.

I don't see, um,

the similarity between
these two, uh, poems.

His is a love poem

and yours is about
a, uh, mosquito.

The meter.
It's the same.

Da da. Da da.

Da da. Da da.

Mm-hmm.

Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da.

Da da, da da, da da.
Da da.

Da-da, da-da, da-da--

da da. That's it.
Mm-hmm.

Mr. Wetherly,

where were you last night
around 11:30?

Here, writing...This.

Writing this?

Oh, I see.

He sent you, didn't he?

Mr. Wetherly is,
uh, paranoid.

Well, the shrinks at Ossining
will clear that right up.

Yeah, but I don't know.

The object of his paranoia
seems to be Jacob, not Lauren.

Well, second best
is better than nothing at all.

Possibly.

Uh, you know,
but Jacob is not half bad.

"O for a muse of blood
to tell it,

I curse your soul
that you would sell it."

Yeah, he sounds like
a fun guy.

"The nights on the sand
under gasping island stars,

"the dawn walks,
palm to palm,

"night's love-sweat
melting away,

"and in its place,
your face, your face,

"your face that now,
for cancerous gold

is sold."

He's writing about a lover
leaving him for money.

Lauren?
She was the lover.

But she hadn't left him.

Not according to
what he told us.

All right,
so who in that world

has two dimes
to rub together?

Uh, the magazine is supported
by a foundation.

Me and Lauren.

But I'm a happily married man.

Oh.
Everybody says that, right?

Right.

Right, as far as I know,

Jacob and Lauren were
the perfect couple.

The tortured artist
and the starstruck protege.

Sounds like you saw him
in action.

Would you hang around the, uh,
offices here and there?

Well, I tried not to.

Now I'm on the top of
Jacob's list

of the things that he abhors.

Why is that?

Because I can afford
to buy dinner.

Now Jacob thinks that people
who accumulate wealth

are morally bankrupt.

So you don't like him,
he doesn't like you.

But still you,
you foot his bills?

Well, my grandfather
who started this foundation

had a soft spot for poets.

You didn't see any signs
that Lauren

was having an affair
with anybody.

No.

No, and if she did,
she'd have to hide it.

Oh, Jacob's a very jealous
type.

How jealous?

Well, I took Lauren for
a cup of coffee one afternoon

to discuss
a circulation campaign.

Lauren told me that when
she got back to the office,

Jacob smashed a chair
on her desk.

I want you to listen to me,
Jacob.

When a woman is m*rder*d,

the primary suspect's
always her lover.

I didn't k*ll Lauren.

Well, of course you didn't.

But you need to understand
how these things go.

The police are gonna
come after you.

You've gotta be prepared.

What does it matter?

She's gone,
the quarterly's going.

Well, maybe there's something
I can do.

I'll talk to my husband.

You've already been
very generous.

I believe in what
you're doing.

You know where...

Poetry ranks on
the world's concerns?

Where?

There was a time I thought
poetry could matter.

When I thought
my poetry could matter.

I know.

Yeah. You do.
I know that.

It's just...

Everything is so hopeless.

Occasionally,
I have a temper.

I am a human being.

Well...

Other human beings
lose their temper

without smashing
office furniture.

Yeah well, other human beings
go through life like cattle.

Their eyes to the ground,

their emotions limited
to rooting for football teams.

We're a pretty sorry bunch,
aren't we?

And tell me about this emotion
when you smashed that chair.

I needed help
at the office.

We were on a deadline,

and Lauren was nowhere
to be found.

Because she was having coffee
with Don Mccallum.

That wasn't the problem.

No, the issue was that, uh,

she wasn't where
she was supposed to be.

Just like the other night
at the reading.

I already told you
she was closing an issue.

So if we asked other people
who were there,

would they tell us
you were ticked off

about Lauren's no-show?

They would tell you that

I had no greater love
than Lauren,

that my life ended with hers,

that civil service workers
are lazy and stupid

and stick to the first arrow
they pull from their quiver.

You're not scoring
any points here, Mr. Garrety.

I don't need to.
I didn't do anything.

The poor girl was k*lled
by a mugger, wasn't she?

I loved her.

What time did the reading end?

Um, I don't know.
10:30, 10:45.

Then I had to stay and sip wine
with my adoring fans.

Ah, yes.

The students, dilettantes.

Uh, minuscule minds?

Yeah.

"O for a muse of blood..."

Yeah, I feel like
I've...

I--I swear I've,
I've, uh, heard that before.

Oh, I know.
Oh, that's the, uh,

that's the way Henry V
opens up, Shakespeare.

If you're gonna steal--
I don't steal.

That was a muse of fire.

This is a literary allusion.

Now if you want
to talk about poetry,

I'll send you
a child's garden of verse.

We can take it from there.

Maybe later.

As for Lauren,

what if we told you
that the medical examiner

found some semen
on her dress?

We're adults.

You're saying it,
it would have been yours.

You're saying it would have
been somebody else's?

How's this guy looking?

Mm, temper,
smashes things,

he denies his jealousy.

But she was a pretty girl

and a whole lot younger
than him.

Mm.
You don't agree.

No, he's got a temper
and he's a fool.

But?

I question his artistic
integrity

and he gets indignant.

I question Lauren's fidelity
and he dismisses it.

Uh, I think his ego's so big
he can't even imagine that

she might have been
cheating on him.

Well, it works both ways.

If she did and he found out...

Why don't you two
finish this debate

while you go check out
his alibi?

I rented a bar.
I paid for some drinks.

Do you remember
what time it ended?

Um, it was before 11:00.
Maybe 10:45.

But Jacob and I sat around
for a while afterwards talking.

What did you and Jacob,
uh, talk about?

Poetry.

Mr. Dunbar.

Did you enjoy
the poetry reading?

I was working late.

Hmm, that means that
the Knicks were on.

It was a great game.
Poetry in motion.

The best kind.

Did Jacob say anything to you
about Lauren?

I don't think so.

I know he found her useful.

Useful?

You told us that she was the,
uh, love of his life.

Jacob can be
a little dramatic.

You may have noticed.

Well, we thought
he might have had reason

to be jealous,

but you're saying
he didn't even love her.

Jacob loved poetry.

Women loved Jacob.

Women throw themselves
at him.

The right words
in the right order

read by the right man.

It'll move your soul.

Hey, those, those women

who, uh, throw themselves
at Jacob...

Can you name any?

Oh, um...

Well, there's Emma.

She works at the bookstore
on Charles.

I still go hear him speak
whenever I can.

The man just has something.

I know.

The right words
in the right order

can move your soul.
Not just your soul.

Feel a tingle up your leg,
you know what I mean?

My mom used to say she felt
that way

when she heard Paul McCartney
sing yesterday.

Mm, no kidding.

But, um, ostensibly,
you got closer to Jacob

that your mom ever did
to Paul McCartney.

What?
Are you the sex police?

No, we're the regular police.

We're trying to find out
about Lauren Collins.

She replaced you as Jacob's
assistant, is that right?

That's right.

And as his girlfriend?

I guess.

I heard about
what happened to her.

It's so awful.

Mm-hmm.

What?
[Scoffs]

You don't think I--

I left both positions
voluntarily.

Assistant and girlfriend.

And what about that old tingle
up the leg?

That was only for Jacob.

Okay, I'm not exactly
proud of this.

He was always cultivating
rich guys as donors.

Sometimes they needed
a little extra incentive

to help out.

So Jacob asked you
to sleep with them.

And these rich guys
who needed persuading,

was one of them Don Mccallum?

Just don't let
his wife know.

He was always afraid
she'd find out.

I just got off the phone
with the bank.

Is there something
you neglected to tell me?

What's the big deal?
We can afford it.

$50,000 to
the village quarterly?

It's life or death
for them, John.

It's not them, Sandra,
it's him.

I'm not an idiot.

[Laughs]
Oh, really?

How can I tell?

You want to support that bum,
fine.

I'll give you a hat
and a token

and you can panhandle
on the e train.

You're a moron.

I live in the real world
where I work for my money.

And you're not giving
another penny

to that leftover beatnik faker
and his mumbo-jumbo magazine

that nobody reads except you

and some pointy-head girls
from Barnard.

Oh, that's just great.

I want a divorce.

It's okay, honey.

I should probably talk to them
in private.

[Baby babbling]

So what is so important?

Uh, we're following leads
on the Lauren Collins m*rder.

It turns out Jacob Garrety

isn't only one of
the city's greatest poets,

he's also one of
its greatest pimps.

We heard all about it
from Emma Cohen.

Jacob's former assistant.

Do you remember her?

I wonder if your wife does.

Lauren came to see me.

But we,
we didn't have sex.

I mean, not really sex.

We started something
we didn't finish.

She didn't want to
do anything.

Jacob wanted her to,
she didn't.

And I think she thought
if she smiled at me nicely,

I would give her
whatever she wanted.

Hmm. Kind of naive.

I doubt she even knew about
what had happened before.

And I don't think Jacob
advertised

to his new girlfriends
that he had whored out

the previous ones.

If you don't believe me,
go ask him.

We can ask him.

But I don't think
he's gonna answer.

The guy from the floor below
saw him at 6:00 P.M.

Who found the body?
That same neighbor.

He came up to borrow
the newspaper at 6:45.

Okay. Thank you.

Well, that rules out
Don Mccallum.

He was with us.

I count seven or eight
s*ab wounds.

Look at this
spatter pattern.

Whoever did this was just
consumed with fury.

Well, we found
a bloody pair of scissors

under the desk.

Vic should have known
to keep his eyes open.

Why?

'Cause he's been
through it before.

Look at this.

That is an old Kn*fe wound

from maybe 10,
15 years ago.

What are the odds
that one poet

would get stabbed twice
by two different people?

[Beep]

John Dunbar again.

You can't hide forever,
you bastard.

Answer the damn phone!

Fine.
[Click, beep]

Sandra's husband.

John isn't here.

Why don't you just
come in?

[Crying]
I'm sorry, I’m--

I'm really not
very good at this.

Excuse me, what are we
talking about, Mrs. Dunbar?

John and I are
splitting up.

Sorry.

13 years down the toilet.

Where does that leave me?

I never complained to him
about his clubhouse tickets

to every sport ever invented

or his golf club
or his cigar club.

But I donate a few dollars
to a poetry journal--

I'm afraid we have
some more bad news for you,

Mrs. Dunbar.

Jacob Garrety
has been m*rder*d.

No.

I'm very sorry.

Why would anyone want
to k*ll Jacob?

We understand that Jacob
made some of his girlfriends

sleep with potential donors
for money--

no, no, no, no.
That's not possible.

Jacob didn't care
about money.

He only cared about art.

I saw him struggle over words,
over syllables.

John could never
understand that.

[Crying aloud]

John Dunbar again.

You can't hide forever,
you bastard.

Answer the damn phone!

Fine.
[Click, beep]

Did you ever find him?

You think I k*lled
that son of a bitch?

You do sound pretty angry.

Me? I'm the happiest guy
in the world.

Sure.
You dumped the wife...

That was her idea.

And credit where
credit's due,

it was the best idea
she ever had.

Then why the angry calls
to Jacob?

He conned Sandra
out of 100,000

of my hard-earned dollars.

50,000 earlier this year.
50,000 more this week.

Wasn't it hers to give?

She can debate that
with my lawyer.

She thinks she's
lady bountiful.

When I met her,
she was working three jobs

to pay tuition
at queens college.

Thank god for prenups.

She's taking out
of this marriage

exactly what she brought in.

A nice rack and 100 bucks.

Pardon my French.

So what did Jacob do when
you asked for the money back?

Nothing.
I never spoke with him.

Never?

Can you account for your time
yesterday

between 6:00 and 7:00 P.M.?

I was having dinner
with my girlfriend.

You want to call her?
Feel free.

I have nothing to hide.

If my kid ever tells me
she wants to be a poet,

I'll tell her
to join the mafia instead.

Nicer people.

So what happened
to this guy--

the poetry-lover's
husband?

His alibi holds.

So you're running
in circles?

Well, even if it didn't,

he might have had a motive
to k*ll Jacob,

but why Lauren?

Jacob was stabbed
about 10 or 15 years ago.

Oh, here we go.

A police report.

"Jacob Garrety.
as*ault by Kn*fe 1996.

"No charges filed.

Victim was a student
at queens college."

Queens college.
That's where Sandra Dunbar went.

Right around the same time.

My cousin Max the accountant
went to queens college.

Millions of people go
to queens college.

Yeah, but I don't think
your cousin Max the accountant

ran in these same circles.

Um, "Jacob Garrety,
Sandra o'Bannon."

Look at that.

Class of '96.

Both members
of the poetics guild.

I wonder if she majored
in Kn*fe fighting.

Um, this poem I always thought
was about Lauren

leaving him for a guy
with money.

But she didn't leave him.

"Your face that now,
for cancerous gold is sold."

You know, he published that
in December.

But maybe Jacob wrote it
years ago.

For a college girlfriend
who left him

for a guy with money.

This poem is about Sandra.

"The nights on the sand
under gasping island stars...

"The dawn walks...
Palm to palm...

"Night's love sweat
melting away...

"And in its place...
Your face...

Your face."

Oh, my god.
Look at my outfit.

I don't do the poetry thing
much anymore.

I mean, beyond
Franny finds a farm.

Do you remember Jacob
and Sandra?

How could I forget?

We were all in awe of them.

They were like the Zelda
and Scott Fitzgerald

of Queens College.

Meaning they were in love.
Crazy love.

They lived and breathed poetry.

I remember Scott and Zelda

had a kind of rocky
relationship.

Does that mean that Jacob
and Sara--

"rocky" doesn't do it justice.

Is "bouldery" a word?
Ha.

They would have these amazing
fights

and then they'd lock themselves
in Jacob's bedroom for days.

What would they fight about?

Scope or Listerine.
Boxers or briefs.

Shelley or Keats.

It got really crazy

when Sandra caught Jacob
with this visiting poetess

from Romania or somewhere.

She picked up a Kn*fe
from this pizza platter

and she stabbed him
right there in the bar.

Detectives.

Sorry.

The doorman said
it would be okay.

Thanks.

You seemed so upset
the last time we were here.

-Oh, the cop who cares.

Bet there aren't too many
of those.

[Gentle music]

* *

Wow.

I wrote that when
my wife left.

Art.

So mysterious, isn't it?

We'd been together
since we were kids.

She didn't want me
to be a cop.

John didn't want me
to be a human being.

I met him my senior year
at queens college.

Yeah.

Didn't Jacob go
to queens college?

I knew him.

I liked him.

I married John.

He was rich,
you were poor.

And here I am,
13 years later,

sitting in this apartment,

with my husband
god knows where.

And I'm looking at a fancy
piano I can't even play.

A few months ago I picked up
a copy of the quarterly

and I saw a poem by Jacob.

Hmm.

I decided to get back
in touch.

I was gonna be a musician
I thought.

Now look at me.

I'm a middle-aged cop
who can bang out

a tune or two at a party.

I should've listened
to my wife.

I didn't need the paycheck
that bad.

Jacob would've starved
before he gave up his poetry

for a paycheck.

[Plays bluesy riff]

* *

how was last night?

We have a lot in common.

Um...

Yeah, we both think
that Jacob Garrety

was a prince.

It turns out she got back

in touch with him after
she saw that poem

in the December issue.

So it was about her.

Yeah.
Brought it all back.

Passion, poetry, poet.

Everything she left behind
when she hooked up

with that overpaid stiff
John Dunbar.

She told you all that?

No.
It was obvious.

Um...

Hey, how would you like
to go to a poetry reading?

Oh, thanks so much.

[Overlapping chatter]

Detective.

If I had known
you were coming,

I would've arranged for you
to play.

Oh, thank you very much.

No, he's...He's doing all right.
Very good.

Excuse me, please.

Uh, I think we are ready
to begin.

We are here to pay tribute
to the life and work

of Jacob Garrety.

Those of us who knew him
personally

will never forget him.

Now I know that many of you
wish to speak and read,

so if you will--

uh, detective.

I'm not here officially
tonight.

Um, but I would like
to read something if I may.

A poem?

Yes.

We've been investigate
the very tragic death

of Jacob Garrety
these last couple of days.

I've been doing it along
with my partner,

detective Wheeler.

I hardly knew Jacob.

Excuse me, Don.
Sorry.

Um...

You know, we only met him
on a few occasions.

We've been investigating
his death

the last couple of days

and so we've had an occasion
to be

searching his office
at the village quarterly.

And in his desk I found...

This.

It's a poem.

It's unfinished.

And I just thought
that tonight

was fitting that I come here
and share it with all of you.

"The gasping stars regain
their light.

"The nights regard
the lovers' cries.

"Their back, a miracle.

"Alert the scripture writers.

"A love that's dead
is born again.

"The years that flew
retrace their steps.

"Rejoice! Rejoice!

"Your face,

your face..."

And that's all.

I'm so, so sorry.

How moving.
Isn't that beautiful?

But help me out.

I don't quite understand it.

It seems to be about
a long lost love

that has come back to life.

But we know that Lauren
was the girlfriend

and she was around.

But maybe they'd had
an argument

and she was gone for a while.

It wasn't about her.

Well, you know,
she was the girlfriend

and he told me the love
of his life.

It wasn't about her!

He didn't love her.

Well, Sandra,
you may be right.

Because you say it was
a long lost love

and this says, "the years
the flew retrace their steps."

Oh, Sandra.

Is this about you?

You knew him in college.

You married John Dunbar.

But then you came back.

I did.

Gosh.

Well, sure.

That makes perfect sense.

You're the kind of woman

that he would've loved
very much.

You had a history
with each other

and you understood art

and you understood him and...

What a tragedy for you.

Oh, god,
why didn't he say something?

Oh, that son of a bitch!

Why didn't
he just tell me?

He did.
He wrote this poem for you

no!

When I went to see him.

When you went to see him?

The night he was k*lled?

Oh.

What did he say to you?

He said, "go back to your
husband before it's too late."

"I didn't want you.

I only wanted his money."

That's a horrible,
horrible thing to say.

So you got...
Angry, of course.

You got those scissors,
I'm sure.

It was the pressure.

He was afraid that he was
gonna lose the magazine.

That's why he said it.

He didn't--
he didn't mean it.

Oh, of course he didn't.

He wrote this.

For you.

Oh, my god.

Even after he knew what
you'd done to Lauren.

No, that was an accident.

You know, I tried to reason
with that girl.

I--I told her that I would

pay for her to go
to graduate school in Europe

if she would just go away,

if she would just get away
from him,

but she wouldn't.

She said that they loved
each other and that...

That I was old news.

That I was...Nothing.

A joke.

But I knew
he didn't love her.

I knew that he loved me.

And I was right.

I was right.

He did love me.

He did.

He did.

[Sobs]

Nothing like
a good love poem

to, uh, get the emotions
flowing.

So you're not gonna tell her
you wrote it?

That'd be cruel.

[Siren wails]