01x06 - Firefall

[bunniefuu]

Remember the penny arcades...

that used to be so much fun
when you were a kid?

For a handful of coins,
you could test your strength,

your skill at a pinball machine.

Those arcades were a lot
of things to a lot of kids,

but there was one particular arcade
that represented something special for me.

It was here that began one of the
most terrifying experiences of my life.

September , : a.m.

Rabino's Arcade was a little different
than the one you might remember.

It was a regular bagman's drop,
a narcotics pickup...

and sometimes a center
for cleaning up old business.

Frankie Markoff, convicted
arsonist, was cleaned up.

Ryder Bond, musical prodigy at ,
internationally respected conductor at .

A gifted man with a nearly
fatal devotion to punctuality.

September , : p.m.

The Lake Shore apartment
of George Mason,

first violinist and concertmaster
of the Great Lakes Symphony.

Mr. Mason was trying for
his customary preconcert nap.

No. No, it's all right,
Randolph.

No! Randolph!

Randolph, no!

I picked up Mason's death
on my police radio.

It sounded enough like news to
take me off my current assignment...

in the hope that I could b*at
the local paparazzi to the scene.

Unfortunately, some of them
have police band radios too.

Kolchak, I.N.S.

As you know, we can't issue any statement
until there's a preliminary investigation.

I have witnesses to question. Until then,
anything I told you would be pure speculation.

How about speculating, Sergeant?

It's my opinion, Kolchak,

that we clear the room.

- What did the witnesses see?
- That's the idea behind my questioning them.

- What happened to Mason?
- Isn't it obvious? The guy was smoking in bed.

- I didn't see any ashtrays.
- That's his problem. Mrs. Sherman?

Mrs. Sherman,
I'm Sergeant Mayer.

Oh.

The time was exactly
minutes before :.

I always take Randolph out
for his nighty-night stroll...

from : to :.

Well, that's sounds like an awfully
long time for such a tiny little dog.

Is he con... Well, I mean,
does he have blockage problems?

- Kolchak.
- Yes.

- But he's much better.
- Yes.

Well, have you
tried mineral oil?

- That sometimes helps.
- Now, Kolchak...

I wouldn't try anything without
talking it over with the vet.

Turner? Turner!

- A little exercise might help too.
- Get Kolchak out of here.

Well, now, Turner... Turner...

Turner, you're hurting my arm.
That's police brutality. Wait a minute...

You said you saw somebody leave
this apartment. Did you recognize him?

Yes, as a matter of fact,
I did recognize him.

All right, all right.

Wait...

Oh, uh...

- Mrs. Sherman, do you remember
me? I was with Sgt. Mayer.

Well, he certainly takes
a dim view of you.

Well, he's
a little dimwitted anyway.

We disagree about a lot of things. He
hates dogs, and I adore the little tykes.

The gentleman that you saw outside the hall
here, outside of Mr. Mason's apartment...

Who was he?

Oh, if anybody adores
the symphony as I do,

they'll certainly
recognize Ryder Bond.

Ryder Bond. The conductor
of the symphony.

Well, as a matter of fact, I
didn't recognize Mr. Bond at first.

Isn't Mr. Bond conducting
a concert this evening?

- Prokofiev, I believe.
- Prokofiev. Yes.

I would suggest a couple of crushed
aspirin into a bowl of warm milk.

- Oh, thank you.
- Yes, of course, Mrs. Sherman.

A tie-in with Ryder Bond,

wunderkind of the musical world?

Maybe there was some meat
on the bones of this story after all.

But I didn't have much time. I knew that
Mayer and the cops would be along soon.

Yes?

Carl Kolchak, I.N.S.

Could I have a moment
of your time, Mr. Bond?

George Mason, sir, is dead.

What did you say?

You're lying.
I don't believe you. Philip!

No, unfortunately it's true, sir. He was
found in his apartment b*rned to death.

- It's terrible. I'm sorry.
- Philip!

- Didn't you get the message?
- Did George check in?

No, sir, and his apartment
doesn't answer either.

- I've been trying...
- Thank you.

- How did it happen?
- The police say it was accidental, sir.

Good Lord. Good Lord!

George was not only a good friend, he
was one of the mainstays of my orchestra.

He was the concertmaster.

Who's going to play the scherzo?

Why wasn't I notified?

You will be, sir. The
police are right behind me.

I'd just like to ask you and this
charming young lady a question, if I may.

Were you with Mr. Bond
at : this evening?

Silence, Felicia!
She only speaks French.

It's none of your business
where I've been or at what time.

- Now, please get out
of here, Mr... - Kolchak.

Kolchak. If you don't get out of
here, I'm gonna have you thrown out.

- Is everything all right?
- No!

The phone message
sounded urgent.

What phone message?

The one I gave you in the
orchestra pit minutes ago.

That's impossible. I've been in
this dressing room for two hours.

Did anybody see you give
Mr. Bond that message?

- Yes. The entire orchestra.
- Really?

Oh, yes! Sergeant Mayer, I'd like
you to meet an old friend of mine.

Mr. Bond, Mr. Mayer.
Mr. Mayer, Mr. Bond.

- Where's Miss Cowles?
- Out sick.

Oh. Well, who's
gonna do the puzzles?

Me.

Page one? Oh, Carl,
come on! I need that story.

Our subscribers are waiting.
What are you daydreaming about?

That bed George Mason d*ed in was
only charred with the outline of a man.

That whole apartment should have
gone up in flames. It's very puzzling.

Well, be puzzled on your
own time. I need that story.

It's not just the way that Mason
d*ed. It's the way that Ryder...

- Oh, come on! Get on it!
- All right! I'll get on it!

It's a little hard to get excited
about a small-time homeowner fraud.

"Small-time"? You'd feel a lot
differently if you had your own home...

and you were made promises,

and you had to sign blank contracts,
and you wound up with half-finished work.

You got taken.

What is it? Storm windows?
Roofing? Aluminum siding?

- What?
- Fumigating.

Fumigating!

Oh, come on, Carl. Write the story.
Forget about Mason and Ryder Bond.

Forget about Ryder Bond?

You might as well forget about
Bach, Beethoven and Bernstein.

Well, them I've forgotten about.

But Ryder Bond's on a witness statement.
He was seen leaving Mason's apartment.

If we have a story connected with Bond,
remember, I have a musical background.

- I play the French horn.
- Yeah, well, I would have guessed that.

Get out and get that
material right after lunch.

- For now, write!
- Write.

- Write.
- Write.

Smite. Tight.

Blight?

September ,
Patterson Towers Apartments.

Miss Felicia Porter, Sorbonne
graduate and international music groupie,

stepped out to improve her tan.

The sun that day was hot, but not hot
enough to cause what eventually happened.

Ryder?

Did you know Miss Porter
personally?

Just saw her around.

She lived a few floors below us.

We were coming up here
for a swim when we...

When we heard...

Screams. It was awful. I was in 'Nam,
and I never saw anything that bad.

Was she completely b*rned
when you got out here?

Was there ever any talk about Miss Porter,
like excessive drinking or anything?

You police always think the worst of
people. I never heard anything like that.

It's just that she did smoke.

It is possible when she
dropped the match in the chaise,

she could have been too drunk
to get up when the fire started.

Do you know anybody else that
saw the fire, anybody else I can talk to?

What's the problem?
Is there someone else?

Well, when we first
ran out here...

Janis thought she saw a man
standing over there, but...

It was just a flash.

I guess it was my nerves. I mean,
how could he have gotten off the roof?

- What do you mean, a flash?
- Like out of the corner of your eye.

He was there, and then gone.

What did he look like?

It was an optical illusion.
I don't know.

All right, Kolchak.
You wanna report? Report.

You wanna do police work,
apply to the academy.

Was he about , handsome,
had a beard, distinguished-looking?

Yes, I guess he might have been.

All right, that's it. Harmel, Mr. Kolchak
is going downstairs. Help him.

- I got every right to be here.
- But not to interfere with police work.

What are we saying here?

That Felicia Porter dropped a match
on this cushion and it burst into flames?

- That's right.
- Why didn't the entire cushion go up in flame?

Why didn't it burn? The only thing that's
b*rned is where the body was touching.

If we think there's any reason to worry
about that, we'll ask the arson squad.

- Well, start worrying. There's reason.
- Harmel, get him out of here.

You're a -year veteran, Kolchak.
What is the matter with your head?

It's a smear.

You're practically
accusing a man of m*rder.

Ryder Bond, almost a god to some of the
wealthiest, most powerful people in Chicago.

God? I didn't
think about that.

Maybe he's starting those fires
by hurling thunderbolts.

That is a rotten thing to say. Bond
is a consummate artist, a genius.

All right, Ron, fine, fine.

This isn't your story.
Where's your assigned story?

- Nobody told you to write these slanders!
- That's right.

Can we please hold this
hysteria down to a fever pitch?

We could be crushed like bugs
for printing these allegations.

"After perfunctory
questioning by police,

Mr. Bond was allowed to leave the
recording studio and return to his home."

"Perfunctory"? "Allowed"?

Should they b*at the conductor of the
Great Lakes Symphony with rubber hoses?

He was seen at two scenes of
the accident by eyewitnesses.

Other eyewitnesses,
reliable ones,

have stated repeatedly that Bond was
with them when the accidents happened.

And one eyewitness,
Miss Felicia Porter,

is no longer felicitous,
nor is she alive.

She is currently
inhabiting an urn.

That is an allegation of
m*rder, which implies motive!

In a case where the police
have just about ruled out foul play.

Well, why don't they rule something in?
That's all I'm asking. That's all I want!

- That's all you were asking.
- Now, wait...

Now, just look!

If we have to devote any
time to these tragic burnings,

I'll have Ron write up some
profiles, eulogies on the victims.

- I have something on file.
- Yes, but short and sweet, Updyke.

Don't hand me any
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

- Now, just one minute, Tony...
- Kolchak...

When you get back to the
swindle and fraud stories,

write about
how you're employed here,

which is one of the
biggest swindles in memory!

You listen...

What did you say, Kolchak?

Where are you going, Kolchak?

Kolchak, come back here!

Now, that item will never see the inside
of the neighborhood department store.

Too bad, too, because it's a
nice idea. Comes already trimmed.

But if you happen to be standing
too close when the spark hits,

then it trims your eyebrows.

Mr. Cardinale,
what would it take...

to completely burn up
a human body...

in, oh, say, , seconds?

I suppose
a couple thousand degrees.

Is there a substance...

that a person could
get their hands on...

that could completely burn up a human
being in that length of time, that quickly?

Well, the army has a few things that
could set fire to the ice in your highball.

What are they?

What they are is not
available to the public.

- For obvious reasons.
- But a person could get them?

The kind of burning
that you're talking about,

sounds to me
like somebody might...

Just might have some kind
of a m*llitary chemical.

If, like you say, the body is
burnt but the surroundings are not,

either somebody does have
some kind of super hotfoot juice,

or something's happening
that I don't know about.

- But... - And I would
like to know about that.

September , : p.m.

I was faced with two equally
unpleasant possibilities.

One, some sort of horrible freak note was
being played in the brain of Ryder Bond...

and he was setting fire
to his fellow man,

or two, to paraphrase
Mr. Cardinale,

something inexplicable
was happening that perhaps

I really did want to know about.

Unfortunately, a reporter
is paid to find out things...

whether he wants
to know about them or not.

As I was to be taught once again,
there are nicer ways to make a living.

Far nicer.

I'd come to confront Mr. Bond
because no one else seemed to want to.

He was slated to give
a matinee concert...

but was now unaccountably
making an unscheduled appearance...

in the car
of Philip Randolf Rourke,

treasurer and business manager of
the Great Lakes Symphony Association.

Get under the hood! There's
two men trapped inside of there!

- Listen...
- Please, sir, move along.

- Ryder Bond was in that car!
- He's lucky he's not in it now.

George Mason, Felicia Porter,
and now Philip Rourke...

The third flame in a steadily
growing, grisly candelabra.

I fully expected
to find a fourth,

but there was absolutely no
trace of Ryder Bond in that vehicle.

I was starting to think I shouldn't
have canceled my appointment...

with the eye doctor.

Obviously you've got every
right to slam the door in my face.

But there are some questions that nobody
seems to want to answer, or even ask.

Well, first let me say...

how sorry I am
about Miss Porter.

It's a tragedy, a terrible,
terrible tragedy.

I'm sure that words can't really
express the grief that you must feel.

Yes.

Well, I'm glad to see that you
are maintaining your equanimity.

Last time we met
you seemed very upset,

with even less reason
than you have now.

Mr. Bond?

Mr. Bond?

Sir?

The academicians at the
university smiled tolerantly...

when I told them my problems.

They said perhaps I thought
I had seen a doppelgaaäanger,

the destructive ghost
of someone dead...

who takes on the appearance
of one who is alive...

Ryder Bond, in this case.

They recommended
a good psychoanalyst...

and gave me a mass of books
to read on the subject.

Obviously, none of the professors had
ever seen a room explode around them...

for no earthly reason.

Books are fine if you want to know
the sociological reasons for legends...

or a lot of other
intellectual double-talk,

but there's nothing like a girl
with the instincts of a Gypsy.

In fact, there's nothing
quite like a Gypsy girl.

Yes, yes, you should definitely
redo the dining room.

But not in gold. In blue.

And you should stay
with traditional furniture.

However, should your path
cross that of a lying reporter,

don't tell him anything,

particularly about any
robberies you may have seen.

He will quote you...

and then, mysteriously,
police will arrive at your door.

Thank you.

- Thank you.
- I didn't understand any of that.

Maria, I told you I cut
that out of the article,

but my bureau chief
put it back in.

You've got your problems, I've
got mine. Look at these tea stains.

- I got you off the hook with the cops, didn't I?
- Yes.

Yeah. Now I've come
to ask you a favor in return.

I think I'm tangled up with a ghost. I
think that the ghost is trying to k*ll me.

And from what I've read,

I understand... well, I think...

Don't laugh.

I think it's a doppelgaaäanger.

- She laughed.
- I can't help it. I'm sorry. It's funny.

I'm really serious. Do you know
anything about these kind of things?

Oh, well, it's a malicious and
lost spirit of a dead person...

who's trying to wear down a living
human being and take over his body,

someone he envies and...

What spirit would envy you?

No, no, it's not me, it's...
Well, it's somebody else.

Oh, so you started nosing
around, and now it wants to k*ll you.

That's what I want to find out.
It's that true? I mean, is it possible?

You know, Kolchak, I
have a friend. He's a doctor.

Yeah?

And Lou's always complaining
because his friends want free advice.

Gypsies have the same problem.

Aw, Maria.

You're really turning into
a very commercial person.

You know that?

Well, anyway, my grandmother had
another name for that kind of a spirit.

But in essence it's the same thing.
She claimed that it was anyway.

But then again, she claimed that
tight pants made someone sterile.

You haven't been sleeping,
have you?

No, I've been too terrified.

So... So, what they say
in the books is true, huh?

Well, the spirit can only take final control
of your friend's body when he goes to sleep.

And it'll k*ll you too
the minute you doze off.

You mean, the moment that
I go to sleep I'm a dead man?

Absolutely... I think.

That's terrific.
I'm exhausted right now.

Well, listen,

a spirit can't operate
on sanctified ground, right?

Then go find yourself
a church and flake out.

That's great. I never
would have thought of that.

What do I do afterwards? How do
I get rid of this doppelgaaäanger?

- How do I eliminate him?
- I don't really know.

You have to do something
about finding out whose spirit it is.

You have to get
the earthly remains.

You have to try to force the
body and the soul together...

Don't be vague, Maria. I
gotta know specifically, exactly.

Well I don't know exactly. I'd
have to ask my grandmother.

- Well?
- My grandmother's living in a nursing home in Winnetka.

When she starts talking,
she never lets go.

I'll have to hear about her
bunions and her stomach and...

Maria, will you just go up
and ask her? I'll come back.

All right. For $.

Two hundred doll...

Maria, all I've got
is five bucks for dinner.

It's just terrible to be broke and
superstitious at the same time.

You don't trust me, right?

- All right, I'll get it for you.
- In hours.

- Or I put a Gypsy curse on you.
- You wouldn't do that to me.

Well, I wouldn't, but my
brother Vincent would,

and Vincent hates to be taken
away from his karate studio.

Oh. Well, that kind of
a curse I understand.

I thought you would.

Is that you again?

Why do you keep
disappearing? Who are you?

Kolchak.
Who were you expecting?

I'm never quite sure anymore.

I seem to have developed a
rather exotic form of schizophrenia.

I keep seeing myself.

I'm never really sure it's me.

Well, I'm not sure
it's you either.

I'm really not sure whether I'm speaking
to Mr. Bond or to the doppelgaaäanger.

The doppelgaaäanger?

It's a ghost who wants to
take over your body, Mr. Bond.

Oh, really?
How charming.

I prefer that to madness.

Now, how do I get it over with?

That's very simple.
You simply go to sleep.

Splendid idea!

Listen, I couldn't sleep all last night
thinking about Felicia and Mason.

They were your closest friends.
The doppelgaaäanger k*lled them.

- And Chopin is gonna play his concerto tonight.
- I'm very serious.

It's going to take over your body
and soul the moment you fall asleep.

It comes from the song
of the same name.

- This is ridiculous.
- Ridiculous? Okay.

Would you like a list
of people...

that went up with so-called...

instantaneous...
Spontaneous combustion?

Ottawa, Illinois. A man and
a woman b*rned up in .

- That was eons ago. Can you prove it?
- You want some later dates?

Sure. How about this one?
Level Cross, North Carolina, .

Hmm?
Two of them in .

One in Venetia, California,
and one in Honolulu.

. Oh, that was
a very good year.

One in Grand Rapids, Michigan,
and another one in ,

right over here in
Rockford, Illinois.

All of them... Pffht!
Gone.

And you're doing this
all for a newspaper story.

Well, partly. I'm really more
interested in saving my own skin.

I have a feeling that doppelgaaäanger
is hanging around here...

and knows that I'm helping you.

- Oh, really?
- Really.

Finally, Bond realized
I was telling the truth...

and agreed to let me
take him to a place...

where he could sleep in safety.

On the way there we
went over his every move...

the day the doppelgaaäanger
k*lled Mason.

Bond remembered cutting
through the funeral procession...

on the way to rehearsal.

It was there the spirit
latched onto him.

Going north on Lake Shore Drive
takes you to only one cemetery.

Possibly I could find out
who was buried there that day.

"Sierra Nevada."

Nevada. "N." "M."

What a mess.

What are you doing?

I have been slaving over those drawers
trying to get them in systematic order.

- Who told you to?
- What are you looking for?

- Markoff. Markoff!
- Mark off what?

Frankie Markoff.

He was listed as having been buried by the Old
Park Cemetery about the third of this month,

along with a few other bodies.

"D" for death,
"O" for obituaries.

"For obituaries." Don't you
read the Teletype, Uptight?

There was an article in there
about his death, some gangland hit.

Try "M" for m*rder,
"H" for homicide.

Mind if I start with "A"
all over again?

Uh-huh... Aha!

Franklin Markoff. Yeah.

"Gunned down.

No witnesses.
Convicted arsonist."

Arsonist.

- "A" for arson?
- Mm-hmm.

Uptight, have you never heard
of the Dewey decimal system?

Frankie was a good provider,

but you couldn't say he was
exactly burning with ambition.

Do you know what your husband
did for a living, Mrs. Markoff?

He never said.

Frankie was what they
call a private person.

I never really
got to know him too well.

- How long were you married to him?
- Six years.

Frankie did night work, and I saw
him mostly when he was lying in bed.

You can't get to
know a person like that.

He didn't talk a lot.

I don't think
he had anything to say.

Did he have any interests
that you know of?

- One.
- His son.

No, music.

Frankie loved music.

Classy music.
He went to concerts.

He even played in a band once.

- Really?
- Mm-hmm.

They called themselves the
Trustees. He was with them five years.

You wanna see his horn?

Anyways, a couple of times at night,
when he was playing his records real loud,

I looked in and saw
him standing in the room,

waving a stick in the air
like he was leading a band.

Thank you very much, Mrs.
Markoff. You've been very helpful.

There's not much to tell. I'm
sorry Frankie wasn't more exciting.

Oh, he's exciting, all right.

Uh...

Oh!

I had to see the place where
Frankie Markoff was m*rder*d.

If Markoff were the doppelgaaäanger,
this was the last place he could remember.

Before this, in place or time,
he had no identity.

I knew Frankie Markoff. I
been all over it with the cops.

- You a cop?
- Do I look like a cop? Do I?

- I'm a reporter.
- That's not much of an improvement.

- Were you here the night that Frankie was m*rder*d?
- Me?

I was having dinner
over to my sister's, chief.

- Then who was watching the store?
- Ah, tragic about Frankie.

He was the Jim Thorpe
of pinball.

He could m*rder any game.

Aces High, Swinger, Gridiron...

I mean, the man had fingers
like a flipper.

I don't want to know who k*lled
him. I'm not interested in that at all.

All I want to know is
exactly where it happened.

That's all I want to know.

Well...

there goes dinner.

Okay. Now...

the b*ll*ts hit him
right over here.

One, two, three.
Not a sound out of him.

Hits the machine,
falls over on the floor.

- See? You can still see the chalk marks.
- Yeah? Where?

- Right there. See? Chalk marks?
- Oh, yeah.

Hey. Four Square.

You know, it was on this machine
that Frankie set the house record.

Sixty-six consecutive games.

Boy, it's ironic.

Here today, tilt tomorrow.

Jackpot.

I'll be more than happy to loan you some
money, Mr. Kolchak, no questions asked.

I need it.
I need it today.

Otherwise, some Gypsy gentlemen are
going to use my kidneys as kettledrums.

Alcohol or gambling? My cousin Ernest
could be of a great help and comfort.

Thank you, Monique, but I
don't need the services of a rabbi.

I bought some information,
and I have to pay for it.

Could you take this to Miss Marian
H... Mary... Mar... Maria Hargrove...

at the Little Romany Tearoom
for me, huh?

Little Romany Tearoom?

Good morning, Monique.

- Good morning, Mr. Vincenzo. Good morning, Ron.
- Good morning.

Wouldn't it behoove you to wear some
fresh clothes when you come in here?

You do represent I.N.S.
before the public, you know.

What are you doing in my desk?

Where are your caffeine pills,
Ron?

I've been up for hours straight,
and if I nod off I'm a dead man.

Tequila, wasn't it?

I once overdid it at a fraternity
party. Same thing happened to me.

Terrible nightmares
when I fell asleep.

- Pills, Ron!
- Upper right-hand drawer.

Upper right-hand... Oh, yes.

Kolchak!

I've never seen you
like this before.

Pick him up. What's
the matter? You sick?

Shall we call a doctor?

I've been marked for death
by the doppelgaaäanger.

Unless I can get the ghost back
into the body, I'm gonna burn up.

- He does have a temperature.
- What's a doppelgaaäanger?

What body?
What are you talking about?

Frankie Markoff,
the doppelgaaäanger.

Carl, go home
and get some sleep.

No, I can't go home, Tony.
I can't.

Listen, Tony,
this is an incredible story.

- If something happens to me...
- Carl, forget all this.

Forget all the pressures. Just
go home and get some sleep.

I can't go home, Tony.

All right, come in the office, lie
down on the sofa, get some rest...

get some sleep, and then you
can finish up the swindle series.

- I talked to a Gypsy lady this morning... last night.
- Get his feet.

She told me the doppelgaaäanger is
going to take over Bond's body and k*ll me.

If he believes in this, then
perhaps he does need a little help.

- You want to help me, Ron?
- Yes, Carl, I do.

Oh, Ron, that's terrific of you.

You can come out tonight and help me dig up
Frankie Markoff's body from the graveyard.

Nobody's going to the
cemetery to dig up any body.

Now you just get some sleep.

That's the only way we're gonna
be able to save Ryder Bond.

- Would you like me to
make some fresh... - Shh!

Yes? Hello.

Oh, uh, no, Father, you
can't talk to him right now.

Yes! Yes!

I have got to talk to him.

Hello, Father.

What?

No! I'll be right there.

Carl? Kolchak!

What happened to the petty cash?

Ryder, listen to me carefully.

I'm your doctor.

We've been through difficult things
before, but we've done them together...

by being reasonable,
by listening to reason.

You are near complete
physical exhaustion.

You've been hallucinating.

Well, then we're both having
the same hallucinations.

Now, you're not taking him
anywhere he doesn't want to go.

Oh, God.

There he is again.
He keeps staring at me.

He makes noises.
He won't let me sleep.

Oh, Lord, Lord,
he's creeping into my skin.

Mr. Bond is not well.

If you try to keep him here,
you could be in legal jeopardy.

- Uh-huh. You got a warrant for his arrest?
- No.

- Did he create any kind of a crime?
- No.

If they take you outta here,
they're gonna put you in a hospital.

Then they're gonna give you a
sedative. You know what that means?

That's just
what he's waiting for.

Come on, Kolchak.
Who's waiting?

- For what?
- A doppel...

- Forget it.
- Nothing. More delusions.

He is just exhausted.
He needs a confined rest.

Confined rest.
You hear that?

You hear that?
Now make up your mind.

Come to a decision.

I'm going to stay.

- Sergeant, can't you do something?
- I'm sorry, Doctor.

If he doesn't want to go,
there's nothing we can do.

Very well.

I'll be available when
you've thought this out, Ryder.

Let's go.

Turn around. Don't look at
it no more. Don't look at it.

Just lie down and go to sleep.

Lie down and sleep.

It's all right. Sleep. Go
to sleep. Go to sleep.

I wasn't getting any sleep,
but at least Ryder was.

By the time it was dark, I could barely
keep my eyes open, and I had a lot to do.

Grave robbery and body snatching
are still punishable crimes in Chicago,

so I had to do it by myself.

Get an order to exhume
Markoff from the coroner's office?

Not with what I had in mind.

Finally I had
gotten down to the casket.

Listen to me, Markoff.

This is your body here.
You are dead.

You are not Ryder Bond.
You will never be Ryder Bond.

Leave Ryder Bond alone.

Return to your own body.

Leave Ryder Bond alone!

Return to your body!

Return to your body, Markoff!

And rest in peace for evermore!

Now, wait a minute! I got nothing
to do with that in there! Believe me!

Hey!
Give me a hand here!

Well, at least I won't have to worry
about the doppelgaaäanger any longer.

He's back in his own body
and will probably be cremated.

Which is really rather sweet,
poetic justice for Frankie Markoff.

My only worry now is to find
Tony Vincenzo to try to raise bail.

They've got me hooked on
some stupid arson charge.

But it's Tony's night to play
cards, and I don't know where he is.

So I think I'll just spend
a nice, good night's sleep...

In the slammer.