Day 7,423
Another rainy, foggy, soggy, sopping, gloomy, overdramatic day in Seattle, the water now five inches deep in the streets. Everyone is completely drenched because a city ordinance forbids umbrellas. At a very evocative intersection, former cops Sarah Linden and Stephen Holder are sitting on Edwin J. Peltz, a mob-connected dentist, and twisting his arm.
Peltz: Ow. Get off me!
Linden: Not until you tell us.
Peltz: Tell you what?
Holder: Come on, Peltz. We know you knew Rosie Larsen.
Peltz: Of course I knew Rosie Larsen. Everyone in Seattle knew Rosie. That girl led a highly energetic secret life which everyone in town knew about except her parents.
Linden: So you admit you killed her.
Peltz: Of course not. I have an airtight alibi.
Linden: What is it?
Peltz: I was shooting smack with Holder at the time of her death.
Linden: Is that true, Holder?
Holder: Yeah. He’s telling the truth.
Linden: You always disappoint me, Holder.
Holder: Sorry, I’m trying to change my colorful lowlife tendencies. Did I tell you I’m in skank rehab now?
Peltz: Could you guys get off me? You’re not even cops anymore. You’re more like deranged, homeless bums.
Linden: Maybe so but we’re still working the case. We’re obsessed, you know.
Holder: I still have my badge. I gave the chief a fake one when he fired me.
Linden: We’ll crack it, too. There are only six people left in Seattle we haven’t eliminated as suspects.
Holder: Of course, we haven’t checked out Walla Walla yet.
Cut to Stan Larsen’s House.
Stan: Boys, I told you to go to your room.
Boys: Aw, come on, dad. We’re in our late forties. We want to get jobs and start twisted families of our own that have lots of dark secrets which, when unraveled lead to corruption and cover-ups at the highest levels of society.
Stan: No! Not until we find Rosie’s killer! Now go to your room or I’ll revert to my violent past and beat someone to death because I think he killed Rosie although it’ll later turn out that he had nothing to do with it.
Boys: OK, dad.
Stan: And don’t let me catch you talking to your Aunt Terri, who knows more about Rosie’s death than she’s letting on. She’s dead to me!
Boys: We know, Dad. We saw you beat her to death in the last episode.
Stan: Oh, yeah, I forgot. But later, in a quiet moment of introspection, I’m going to feel deep regret over that. If you watch my face, you’ll see a very agonized expression come over it as the camera zooms in.
Boys: OK, dad. Night.
Darren Richmond’s campaign HQ. The room is jammed with politicians, teachers, teenagers, reservation Indians, extras and walk-ons.
Indian chief: Why did you bring us all here, Richmond? It’s crowded.
Richmond: We all have something in common.
Disgraced teacher: What?
Richmond: We’re red herrings. Every one of us had our lives ruined because we were once suspects in the Larsen murder. I’m in a wheelchair because of it and I have to keep running for mayor over and over even though I have no chance of winning.
Indian chief: And we Indians are sick of being portrayed as sinister crooks. It’s not only false—well, OK, partially false–it’s politically incorrect.
Sinister crook: So what can we do about it?
Richmond: I don’t know. I was hoping someone might have an idea. I got nothin’.
The door swings open and an attractive older woman enters.
Woman: I have an idea.
Everyone else in unison: OMG! It’s Rosie Larsen! An older, more mature and haggard Rosie Larsen with lines of hard-won experience and tragedy etched on her beautiful face but still recognizably Rosie Larsen!
Richmond: So you were never killed?
Rosie: No, I just got tired of the never-ending gloomy, rainy, overdramatically yet symbolic and intensely atmospheric atmosphere of Seattle and I ran away. I went to Hollywood and became a writer of episodic television. I created this show, in fact.
Ominous growl from the crowd.
Oh, please. We’ve won awards and the critics love our gritty intensity and our gloomy, rainy atmosphere. This show’s going to run forever and Rosie Larsen’s entirely fictional murder will never be solved. I stole the idea from Twin Peaks. Now go back to your assigned roles and quit whining.
The people in the room rush Rosie Larsen and beat her to death. Then they all stomp her to a bloody pulp and burn the remains. Then they beat the remains. Meanwhile, Linden and Holder, on skateboards, head for Walla Walla.
Holder: Tell me again why we’re going to Walla Walla, Linden.
Linden: Instinct, Holder. My instinct tells me an important break in the case is breaking there.
Holder: So far, your instincts have destroyed both our careers and kept us on the same case for 21 years.
Linden: True but at least we’ve laid bare the dark underbelly of a previously underpublicized American city. And that’s not nothing.
Holder: My skateboard is wobbling, my head hurts and I need to pee. Can we take a break?
Linden: You call yourself an obsessive, Holder? Keep scuffing along. We’re on the right track at last.
