Then WHAM! We're perched behind the red siren of a speeding, Ghostbusters-esque hearse-bulance. My heart attack succumbs to a fit of laughter, because I swear the "Police Squad!" title card should pop up over this image.
Unlike the swingin', horntastic theme we all know and love, a bombastic score bats us around for a few seconds, sounding a bit like Ravel's "Bolero" getting hurriedly beat up in an alley.
The hearse-bulance disgorges the credit we've been waiting for then dumps us at the side of the road and races off. I guess we'll have to hitchhike from here. Thanks a bunch, pal. Sunset-stained waves crash against the rocky shore as we transition to the crime scene and the "also starring" credits.
We get close-ups of the Klug checking the body, allegedly recording his observations on a nearby chrome Mini Micro tape recorder they keep cutting to. However, while we're privy to his dictation, we never see his mouth move, so I'm guessing this was done artfully, hastily added later or proves that telepathy is among his arsenal of superpowers. The credits continue. For some reason, John S. Ragin and Robery Ito are the only ones forced to double up. That's just wrong.
As the crime photographer snaps away with a 50-pound camera, the big man bags the victim's hands and then fastidiously scrapes some sand from her foot into a vial. Unfortunately, he stores the vial's cap in his mouth until he needs it. Uhm, won't that contaminate your evidence? "Quince, I'm picking up traces of mustard, relish and Old Smuggler in this sand sample."
He snaps off his latex gloves and stares forlornly at the body. The single greatest episode title ever crowds the screen. Badass.
As he packs up his black bag, the "guest stars" are listed... one at a time. Why did Ito and Ragin have to carpool? Why am I worrying about it?
God-cam looms over Lt. Monahan and his shadow, Detective Brill, as they meet among the red flashes of the police cars. They have the following voiceover exchange that isn't even in the same county as what they're miming.
"Good evening, Brill. Well, what do we have?"
"All the signs of a textbook rape."
"Who's the medical examiner?"
"Quincy."
"Oh no."
The man himself searches the body's belongings for critical evidence. It's here that he descends upon his first victim. He busts the chops of a gangly rookie cop who is lackadaisical about examining crime scene evidence. Take that, Officer Whisperthin! He gobbles air and looks like he's about to wet himself. Granted, Quincy just had an evidence vial cap in his mouth but... well, he's the Man. Different rules apply.
A trained geek eye will notice that Officer Whisperthin is played by Don Mantooth, little brother of "Emergency!" heartthrob Randolph Mantooth.
Lt. Monahan butts in to rescue the rookie. Here's our first face-off, the edgy start of the Quincy-Monahan tradition we all know and love.
"Hey there, Quincy. Nice to see you," he says, although it's clear that it isn't. "Well, what does it look like to you?"
"Looks like you still haven't told your men what not to do at the scene of a homicide."
Imagine Joe Pesci with a bullfrog lodged in his throat, and you have a fair idea of Garry Walberg's voice. It bubbles and squeaks as he lays into Quincy. I love that voice.
"Look, Quincy. I work with other medical examiners, all day, all week. They don't get in my way. I don't get in theirs. And we solve a lot of cases. In other words, they stay out of the way of my detectives. I don't let my boys put their fingers in your cotton-pickin' swabs!"
The Klug gives him a yeah-right look and takes another jab. Monahan hits the "Look, Quincy" button again. He should just tape that thing down 'cuz it's going to get a lot of use in the next seven years.
"Look, Quincy. Stop trying to make out of this more than a simple rape."
"I never knew there was such a thing."
Bang! There's you're first blast of the ol' Quincy righteousness. He delivers it in his patented Somber Tone™. You know the one. Where the world's injustices weigh upon his soul and make him sad. Monahan should count himself lucky that Quincy didn't deliver that in a roundhouse of righteous rage. Don't worry. He'll poke the hornet nest again later.
Detective Brill breaks it up before they come to blows by announcing that they've found a suspect. We cut to a sea of emergency vehicle lights a few miles away. A pair of red-shirt paramedics load a guy onto a gurney ("you plug 'em, we lug 'em). Quincy notes that he's in shock and has two bullet wounds. Oh, and he tells them their jobs. Dude, you're a pathologist not an EMT.
Apparently, the cops caught him in possession of the dead woman's purse and fired a couple of warning shots. In his ass. Monahan says they've got their killer rapist: case closed. But Quincy can't accept that. No case is solved without his say-so.
"How are you going to justify pumping that kid full of lead if it turns out he wasn't the one who killed that girl? And I don't think he is!"
Quincy says the suspect is too small to have subdued the victim. Monahan says that the guy could've gotten "all worked up" and done it or he might've had help. He blows Quincy off about putting his concerns in writing and going through proper channels.
I've got to pause and say that the direction in this episode is quite good. Lots of dynamic angles and such. Very cinematic. There's your "Sunday Mystery Movie" budget at work, I guess.
Cut to the L.A. County Coroner's Office building. At night. Specifically, three a.m. Quincy strolls in where the long-suffering Sam has been prepping the victim for Quincy's experimental fingerprints-on-flesh examination technique.
"But we've got about as much chance as a..."
"As a Chinaman in hell?"
Sam sighs. "Quincy. That's a slur against the Chinese. I keep on telling you I'm Japanese," he says... in his Vancouver accent.
"What's the difference?" Oh, Quincy, you scamp. He doesn't really mean it, folks. Just playful banter.
Quincy suddenly remembers there's a hot chick waiting in his bed on the S. S. Cadaver and grabs a giant, black phone to try to dig himself out of the doghouse. He wakes her up, apologizes for ditching her and starts excitedly explaining his new fingerprint-oil-on-the-corpse detection technique. Instead of hanging up on his ass, she is calm and forgiving.
"I knew I shoulda called you soona," he says, his Philly-spiced-with-New-York accent really chewing those words.
"Well, you said up front, 'No commitments. No obligations.' Only, I would like to go back to sleep."
He starts to say that he's sorry, but she's already hung up on his ass. Sam asks if she's mad. Quince says, "She's furious but won't admit it. She smiles at everything I do. Never complains.... She's driving me nuts. C'mon, let's see if we can find this girl's killer."
Cut to the Coroner's Office in daylight. Inside, Quincy and Sam stare at a TV mounted in the wall behind their equipment. A TV. With dials! Welcome to the mid-70s, kids! On the wall behind them is a poster explaining the wonder of the Metric System. Ask any '70s school kid, and they'll go on and on about how they tried to brainwash us into embracing metrics back then. Go ahead. Ask. I'll wait.
Anyway, Sam and Quince smoke over close-ups of the victim's bruised neck on their luxurious color television while somber music swells. Unfortunately, they're too late. The killer's oils have already evaporated from the victim's wounds, so they can't patch together a damning fingerprint. They do, however, get a sense from the bruises as to the largesse of the killer's hands.
"You know what Monahan would say?" Quincy sneers. 'That only proves she didn't strangle herself.'" Zing!
Enter the Mustache. Deputy Coroner Astin unleashes some mustache-fu on his giant licorice phone, gritting his teeth and really working the long-suffering slow boil. He even sounds like future-Mustache William Daniels in this scene. It's Monahan on the line, making his second mistake: harassing Quincy through his boss. Astin starts to ask his secretary to page his favorite pain-in-the-ass but decides to surprise Quincy with a hand-delivered mustache whipping instead.
Sam and Quincy are still looking at the magic motel Zenith, which is now showing the local news instead of forensic photos. Reporters besiege Deputy Mayor Collins as he heads up the stairs. He stops and "commends" the police on their diligent work making "lawlessness unprofitable under this mayor's administration." He delivers that statement with so much puffed-up political insincerity that you know he's going to be one of this week's villains. Wow. He couldn't have tipped his hand faster if he was wearing a t-shirt that said "BAD GUY."
Quincy's pissed that the murder of a city hall employee (the aforementioned Blondie) is pretty much glossed over. The news cuts back to the studio, and you've just got to laugh. Forget the artistically molded news anchor desks, dramatic lighting and fancy computer graphics of today's news programs. Back in the day, all you needed was one guy, an old office desk, a wall-mounted TV and, erm, curtains. Seriously, they've dressed up their monitor like a puppet show stage.
Puppet News mentions that police later tracked down a suspect a few miles away and shot him for resisting arrest.
Sam comments, "Looks like they're sure they have their man."
"You ain't kiddin'," grouses Quincy. "He assaults a girl and then flees the scene at three miles an hour."
Uh-oh. Here comes the Mustache. Now we get a sense of the Quincy-Astin dynamic that will dominate the series. Astin approaches with his hands in his pockets, knowing that any threatening moves might lead to Quincy performing a tracheotomy with his bare hands. But then he makes the mistake of mentioning Monahan's name.
"My report's not ready, sir," Quincy blurts, refusing to hear any of it.
"But I understand we've been working all night. Surely we've arrived at the cause of death and the mode."
The Mustache likes to throw "we" around a lot. Makes him feel involved, I guess. He takes a mincing approach to convincing Quincy that he needs to hurry up and follow proper channels. The Mustache is all about the status quo. Who cares if it's right as long as it's on time. Quincy calmly shuts him down, punctuating his affable disdain with a surly "sir."
The Mustache finally gets miffed. "But I am charged with the responsibility...!"
"...of supplying complete and accurate information," Quincy calmly finishes for him. "Which we just don't have right now." Ooh. Hurts don't it, Mustache?
He actually starts stuttering as he tells the Klug that they'll never get anywhere if he keeps chasing his experimental technique, especially since it hasn't proven damning evidence in cases so far. Quincy shuts him down, saying it might this time. The Mustache gobbles air and looks entreatingly at Sam, who's a safe distance away with a "what a sorry jackass" look on his face.
Unfortunately, that sting doesn't last long as Quincy has to admit that they were too late to capture the fingerprint oils. Astin cranks up his "why I oughta" face and says he's going to tell Monahan that the girl was assaulted and strangled. "And that will be that."
"Don't forget the broken neck," Quincy interjects. "It was snapped like a dry twig by powerful hands."
Now we see smarmy administration in action as Astin turns his back on Quincy and throws his arm around Sam like he's his best buddy asking for a favor. No one pulls off the "I graduated top of my class for this?" look quite like Sam. Robert Ito truly mastered the art of body language. He never got enough lines, but the man could emote like a mutha.
The Mustache says, "The Lieutenant would like a blood type on the alleged assailant to be sure that it matches with the semen smears taken from the victim."
Yeesh. I didn't think you could say "semen smears" on TV in the '70s. I bet that woke up someone in the censor's office. Keep in mind, kids, that these were the days before DNA was your go-to forensic evidence. Quincy had a much more challenging time of things than today's "CSI" jackasses. Anyway, Astin leaves, forgetting to pat Sam on the head. Dejected, Sam walks back to Quincy and apologizes for succumbing to the Mustache. Quince says he'll take it off his hands, but Sam feels he's been tasked.
Quincy says, "Sam, what is this? Coolie labor? Can't expect a man to work all day and all night. Now go home and get some sleep." Wow. Quincy telling Sam to go home. I can't believe it. Unless, of course, by "home" he means the cardboard box he set up for Sam in the back of the lab.
Sam says, "Banzai." Yes! I'd make another gushing remark about his being in "Buckaroo Banzai," but this recap is loaded with enough fanboy freakdom already.
Quincy says, "You're welcome" and races off.
Sniper-cam zooms in on the towering majesty of L.A. County General Hospital (nothing specific, just surgery-n-stuff). Quincy steps out of a wood-paneled elevator and busts through the doors of the intensive care ward. Mere doors cannot stop the man. Klug smash!
Quincy struts up to the desk and puts the coroner schmooze on the head nurse. He says he wants to see the suspect, Peter Gordon. Ginger McNurse smirks, "You're early. He's still alive." Oh, those kidders in intensive care. "Sorry, ma'am. Your husband's dead. Ha! No, he's not."
Quincy shoots back, "Things are a little slow."
They duel for a bit. Quincy wants the info, but she tells him he really should go through the doctor. Lady, Quincy don't do proper channels. She's impressed with his enthusiasm, though.
"I didn't know the coroner's office was into live patients."
Quincy puts her away with, "Oh, we are into things, my dear, that would astound you."
The suspect rudely interrupts the necrophilia chat by flatlining on the station's heart monitor. Ginger runs off with the Klug in hot pursuit.
In Gordon's room, Ginger and a flustered blonde nurse flutter around checking this and that. Meanwhile, Quincy just strolls in and starts beating on the guy, unleashing some fierce resusci-fu that would bring the guy back with a shattered ribcage. Some "coolie labor" wheels in a defibrillator. Everyone keeps asking, "Who's he?" But they let him take charge anyway.
Quincy refuses to let the guy ruin his case by dying, so he zaps Gordon until he has a nice, warm glow... oh, and he comes back to life. Ginger McNurse looks like she needs a cigarette. The resident, Dr. Stone, who was "on break," finally wanders in to find out what the commotion is about. He notices our hero and says, "Who are you?"
"Quincy. Coroner's office." Bang! All he needs is a white hat and some chrome revolvers to spin. Badass.
Ginger, who's now in love, vouches for the big man, but Doogie Howser, M.D. says, "I'll have to fill out 50 forms over this mess."
Quincy gets out his Sarcasm Hammer™. "Sorry to have caused you all that trouble, Doc." He moseys out.
Ginger shoots a longing look after him as we fade to commercial...
I hope you got yourself a fresh Tab soda because it's time to visit Parker Center--L.A.P.D. headquarters and Lt. Monahan's dojo. Quincy further proves the futility of putting doors in his way, smashing into the lieutenant's office. They greet each other formally.
"Lieutenant."
"Quincy."
Translation: "Dickweed." "Pain-in-the-ass."
Monahan plays nice, figuring the big man has finally got with the pencil-whipping/why-try program. He sees that the blood types match and warms up his "case closed" stamp. Quincy points out that three million people in L.A. have that blood type. Monahan counters with the fact that only one of those people was found holding the victim's purse.
Quincy plays the "big, strong hands" card, comparing a picture of the victim's bruises with a handprint taken from the suspect.
"Whoa. Whoa. Hold on, Quincy. Look, I may not be a super sci-boy sleuth, but I do know that a hard force against a pliable surface does not leave a representative imprint." Incidentally, I want a t-shirt that says, "super sci-boy sleuth."
Quince rolls his eyes. Monahan keeps plugging. "Did you ever walk on the beach? Look at your footprints in the sand. They're like a giant's."
Ah, that's because Quincy is a giant. A giant among men, Monahan. For a second, Quince looks like he's going to put that footprint theory to the test (on Monahan's ass), but he relents and throws down the laziness card.
"You're not even gonna try, are you, Lieutenant?"
They accuse one another of being unreasonable. Monahan whines about having a big stack of cases waiting. Quincy decides to give him a lesson in reviewing evidence. He forces him to actually, you know, read the coroner's report before he stamps it. Ah-HAH. There was a pack of cigarettes among the victim's stuff. The Klug thought to examine her lungs and discovered that she didn't smoke. So it wasn't just some random jumper but someone she knew well enough to hoard cigarettes for.
Monahan won't have it. He had already inked up his "case closed" stamp. He invites Quincy to leave so he can go back to his nap... erm, his stack of cases. The Klug looks like he's about to deliver a parting smackdown, but he bites it back and leaves. Monahan makes a funny face. Oh, you will fall, my friend.
We pan down from the resuscitated suspect's IV bag. Quincy's argument all along is that he's a "little guy," but he looks pretty average to me. Maybe Billy Barty canceled on them at the last minute.
Quincy is at his side, comparing the sizes of their hands. The Klug has some big hands. He's wearing the first of a series of sweater vests he'll sport throughout the episode, this one being angry-red houndstooth check. He uses the "good cop" approach to get some information, but Gordon is kind of a dink, especially considering the big man took time out of his busy schedule to beat him back among the living.
Gordon whines about going to prison and becoming somebody's plaything. He asks the Klug, "You ever been to a place where they do hard time?"
"I've been there," he shrugs. Wait--what? Quincy's an ex-con? That would explain his "stab 'em before they stab you" style. Maybe he's just visited to taunt murders he's put away. Suspect Gordon whines some more and provokes our first official explosion of the patented Quincy righteous rage:
"You're really feeling sorry for yourself, aren't you?"
"Wouldn't you?"
"No. Not after I just ripped off a dead person's belongings, no."
"I thought you were trying to help me..."
"That's right! I don't like to see anybody become a patsy for a crime they didn't commit but that doesn't mean I like you!"
"You're a punk kid who would rip off a buck wherever you would get it, and I hope they nail you for it! I'll try to see they don't nail you for what you didn't do! Not because of you! But because somebody took a beautiful, young life and they snuffed it out. And I don't want them to get away with it because our system was able to lay it off on you!"
Gordon somehow survives multiple air-stabs from the Finger o' Judgment™. Quincy sneers, "Don't forget to shine your halo!" and stalks out.
Ah, the majestic, if somewhat phallic, Los Angeles City Hall. Quincy slides in and asks to see the deputy mayor (as seen on TV!).
Unfortunately, he's out, so Quincy, now in a calmer argyle sweater vest, chats up the DM's secretary, Shirley, played by Dimitra Arliss. Extra points to my lovely wife for noting that Dimitra famously played the ill-fated would-be-killer Loretta in "The Sting." They hit it off until Quincy asks about our favorite dead city hall employee, Dianne Johnson. Shirley loathes the dead blonde and all of her fans. The Klug gets to the point and asks if Dianne smoked.
"The body beautiful?" Shirley sneers. "I'd like to say she never put anything in her body that wasn't organically grown, but I couldn't do it with a straight face." Rarrr!
Quince cracks on her for being snide about the dead, but Shirley knows no guilt. She paints Dianne as quite the climbing slut during her three months at city hall.
"How do you think she jumped so fast from that little squirrel to the mayor's office?"
Quincy asks who the squirrel is. Shirley names Mr. Marcus, the assistant city controller. And there he is, embodied by veteran nebbish George Wyner. You've seen him in everything. His intercom buzzes, and we see his secretary, Miss Tolan, in the outer office with Quincy towering over her. Suffering a sudden case of nerves, Marcus stutters and stalls and asks Quincy to make an appointment.
The big man acts gracious, but we all know he doesn't play by the rules of mortal men and certainly not those of pencil pushers. He puts the mack on Miss Tolan. I've got to confess that actress Nancy Fox kinda gives me the willies here. Something between the pale eyes, straw hair and squeaky voice just gets to me. She gushes about Mr. Marcus in such a blissed-out, moon-eyed way that you'd think she latched onto him after things didn't work out with Charles Manson. Creepy.
Quincy smiles and nods and then asks to use her phone to check on a patient. Miss Tolan proves she isn't completely out there and points out that he's a coroner.
"Doesn't that mean all your patients are dead?"
"Well, I have to make sure he didn't die of something serious."
He snags the phone. In his office, Marcus is pacing and telling someone on the phone that something's happened and he's scared. Then he stops and asks if someone else is on the line. Quincy "apologizes" for "accidentally" picking up the line and reminds the little man of their appointment tomorrow. Threat delivered, he strolls out. Miss Tolan gives him a "what a guy" smile, or she's seeing ponies and rainbows, I'm not sure. Marcus just about weeps in fear in his office. You'd think the Grim Reaper just knocked on his door. Well. he did.
We pan over sunset-limned buildings near the harbor and invite ourselves into the mustard-and-macreme wonder of Lee's apartment. Quincy prattles on about the case while she sets out a candlelit dinner.
The Klug sits down on her couch, takes off his shoes and strolls to the table. He finally stops and notices all the trouble she's gone to.
"The wine is perfect. The food is perfect. The table is perfect. The candles are perfect. The little flowers are perfect. And, of course, you're perfect."
She smiles and shrugs, but then he says, "You're not going to get away with it, Lee." She says, appropriately enough, huh-wuh?
"This is not our deal, remember?" he rants. "No strings. No involvement. Just plain, simple friends."
"Oh, I don't believe this," she says, rightly so. "You're gonna stand here and make a fuss over my making a fuss? I like to make a fuss."
Quincy goes into a caged rage. "Lee! Don't you see? Don't you see how you're twisting the words around? 'Fuss' is the operative word here!"
No, I think "fear of commitment" is the word, Quince. Erm, three words.
"If you make a fuss, I become special," he froths, wagging the Finger o' Judgment™. Whoa, Quince! Put that thing away. It's liable to go off and strike Lee down. "I don't wanna be special. I just wanna be your pal!"
Translation: He just wants to get together for hotdogs and hot lovin'. Even a dinner date is too much commitment. Or he's trying to protect her from his dark past. Later, we'll see the dangers of being Quincy's "pal."
Upset when mommy and daddy fight, the phone wails in protest. The Klug looks its way as though it's the Bat-Signal and then looks beseechingly at Lee. Only a true crusader would choose the phone over her right now. Save the world tomorrow, Quince. Don't do it.
"So answer the phone, pal," she dares. "I'm sure it's for you."
As he backs toward the phone, he blusters that it couldn't be for him, that it's probably one of her boyfriends. It's Sam. Wahnt-wahnt-wahhhhhh. If Quincy hadn't opened the "commitment" can, he could've blamed his escape on Sam. The date-busting news is that there's a new corpse in town: Assistant City Controller Harold Marcus. He was found dead in his apartment.
"Murdered?" Quincy asks. No one makes a meal of that word quite like the Klug. Murrrderrred. I love the man.
"That's what you're supposed to find out," says Sam, busting the big man's chops. "You're the medical examiner."
"You're very funny, you know that?" He hangs up, whistles to himself.
Meanwhile, Lee stands over by the candles, doing a slow burn, arms crossed. He explains that there's been a big development in the case and he has to run. He grabs a giant spoon and samples some sauce.
"Wow! Boy, that's terrific, honey," he says. "Does it freeze well?"
She gives him the stink-eye. You can hear her thinking, "No, but your bed will. Pal."
"I'm sure glad we have, you know, the kind of relationship we have," he tries. "No explanations. No apologies. You know." He puckers up the Klug Mug and leans in for a kiss. Lee remains a statue with a plaque that reads, "Woman Scorned." De-nied. Quincy hotfoots it out of there. Lee frowns at the table and literally tosses the salad.
Wait, Quince! You forgot your shoes! Oh well. I'm sure he keeps an extra pair of ass-kickers in the station wagon.
Quincy meets Monahan in the controller's busy apartment, bristling with extras. In a contemporary crime show, we'd get lingering gore-porn of Marcus's corpse, but this show knows that's excessive... and a little sick. Instead, we learn by listening to the characters banter. Yes, writing. How about that? Modern TV should give that a try sometime. The lieutenant asks, in so many words, if Quincy's going to rubber-stamp this suicide or be an ass. Shouldn't he know by now?
Quincy says that Weird Harold's neck was broken and then he was positioned to make it look like he hanged himself. Monahan looks about ready to pistol-whip our hero. Quince 'splains that, in a true hanging, the neck elongates as the vertebrae separate. However, Marcus's vertebrae haven't separated--they've been crushed... as though by powerful hands.
The Man is feeling generous, so he lets Monahan make the intuitive leap. He just barely makes the jump, but he's intrigued. He wants Quincy to type that up all nice, and then the cops will follow up if it looks promising.
Unfortunately, Detective Brill butts in to harsh their mellow. Poor Joseph Roman. First, he's limited to being the "butt-in" guy, and then an extra walks in front of the camera and completely blocks him. He reports that a suicide note, in Marcus's handwriting, was found in his locked office. That, of course, sobers Monahan up right quick and renders him deaf again. In fact, he seems embarrassed that he got on the Quincy train there for a second and decides to bust his nuts for it.
"Do me a favor. Stop playing detective. You're a doctor, okay? C'mon, Brill." He charges off. Brill gives Quincy a "what he said" look and leaves.
Okay. We're about 30 minutes in at this point. It's been pretty standard and a little badass so far, but it's going to get crazy from here.
We open on the black station wagon revered by many as the Quincymobile. It's parked right in front of the entrance to Danny's restaurant. You know that's got to be good for business. Actually, that will be a running gag, especially in the next few episodes, with Danny bitching and moaning.
Inside, the director gets cheeky, literally, to introduce the den of salaciousness and salmonella that is Danny's. This week's sponsor must've been Underalls. The ass-cam follows one of the waitresses over to the bar where Quincy rubs his pounding temples waiting for Lee to answer the phone.
Reading in bed, she glances at her French's mustard phone (that matches her lamp) and turns back to her copy of "Cuddling with a Coroner."
Quince gives up and asks Danny what he's got for a headache. "Oh, I still got some of those painkillers you prescribed for my back."
"Do you any good?"
"Yeah, I can now press 200 pounds."
Danny slickly brings up his wife's tonsillitis and fishes for a fix. Quincy grabs a cocktail napkin and starts writing a prescription. Danny waves him off, saying that the pharmacist gives him static when he brings him napkins. So he picked up some prescription pads from the stationery store. For convenience's sake.
As Quincy scribbles, Danny slips him some pills, and Floozy McTrollop pulls up a stool. She watches the big man chase his pills with some booze.
"Uppers or downers?" she purrs, further rooting this show in 1976.
"Load levelers," Quincy replies.
"How are tricks, Marilyn?" Danny schmoozes, perfectly at home with hookers perching on his bar. When I'd alluded to Danny's powers of "procurement" in my Rogues Gallery cast review, I'd forgotten that he actually stocked hookers at the bar alongside the peanuts.
"How can you sell it when everybody's giving it away?"
Quincy offers her a drink, but Danny waves her off. "This guy is only interested in bodies that are dead."
"I heard about guys like you," she says, shocked. "What is it they call it?"
Danny smiles, "Pathology."
"It's pathetic." Oh, that lovable prostitute.
Quincy picks up the weightlifting reference Danny conveniently laid down a minute ago and runs with it. He asks how hard it would be to lift a corpse over your head to, say, fake a hanging. Danny is comfortable with this line of thought, so you've got to bet he's lugged a few stiffs in his day. He asks what size body they're talking about. Quincy says Marilyn's size. Floozy looks appropriately horrified.
Danny's professional opinion is that they're better off hoisting her up on a rope instead of dead-lifting. The big man points out that that would leave damning marks on the beam and the rope. He figures the killer was smarter than that and big and strong enough to lift Marcus into the noose. He keeps painting the killer as a Lou Ferrigno type, but I've got to say that Muscles McBeardy (remember him?) ain't that massive. I wouldn't call him petite, but I wouldn't hire him to be The Hulk, either.
Danny bets that he can lift Floozy. Quincy leaps out of his seat, ready to give it a go right there. Danny thinks his place is too classy for such a display, so Quincy invites them to his boat. Marilyn, fearing some necrophiliac orgy, pipes up.
"Hey, whatever you fellas got in mind, forget it!"
She tries to bolt, but Quincy offers her another drink. She says they can get her as drunk as they like, but she still won't do it. However, she says she hates to drink alone, so Danny and Quincy quickly grab glasses and start filling them. Damn, I love this show.
Cut to drunken singing as the Quincymobile weaves down the wharf to his boat. The lyrics, for those of you singing along at home, go: "We're gonna go home in the morning. We're gonna go home in the morning. And start drinking all over again."
They spill out of the badass station wagon and laugh their way to the stairs. Floozy mentions that she usually gets her money up front, but that's forgotten when she realizes Quincy's place is a boat. She loves boats almost as much as Jim Beam and penicillin combined. Ouch! Okay, that was a bit harsh.
Meanwhile, Lee is still reading in bed. She must've gotten to the chapter on "Forgiving His Forensic Ways," because she shuts the book and starts to dial his number. However, she smiles and decides to make up in person, throwing a trenchcoat over her diaphanous nightgown and heading out. Uh-oh. They're on a collision course with wackiness.
Back on the boat, Quincy is busily trying to hang a hooker.
"Go limp, Marilyn. Don't fight him. Go limp." I can't improve on that.
Danny jostles her around a bit. Marilyn says she's feeling seasick. Danny caves, saying he can't do it. Delighted, Quincy says that it proves that the killer must have "almost super-human strength."
A car pulls up, and out pops Lee. Quincy wonders if the killer wasn't alone and offers to help Danny to illustrate the point. They hoist Floozy up to the noose just as Lee appears at the top of the gangplank.
"Hi, Lee," Quincy says nonchalantly. "What're you doing here?"
"Oh, Quincy. You're a sick man."
Fade to commercial...
