Jennifer 8 Page #2

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In the garage he finds the gas cylinder. Empty and so is the

bastard with it. He drags fingers through hair in frustration.

Looks around at the heaps of crap that need clearing out. The

view beyond he hardly cares to look at. But if he does it is

as follows. Clouds massing on the horizon. Fields getting re-

ady for rain. His nearest neighbor is around 200 yards away.

His nearest Cow about 50. This house is remote and rural look-

ing with a veranda out back. But BERLIN has no inclination for

sight-seeing. As he walks away a dreary female Voice seeps in.

8:
INT. LIVING ROOM/KITCHEN. HOUSE. DAWN.

The Voice comes via a police scanner. Most of this dialogue's

bullshit. Illegally parked autos and a few drunks still about.

BERLIN sits on the mattress eating a breakfast of chewing gum

and milk. He unwraps another Juicy Fruit and regrets it. Goes

round his mouth like a shoe in a washing machine. A reluctant

decision is taken. Spits gum at the sink as he arrives in the

kitchen. Starts unloading his leather bag. A flotsam of stuff

is excavated including a 9mm Beretta and a pack of cigarettes.

He lights up and takes a cruel hit full of nicotine and guilt.

Wouldn't need a clairvoyant to realize he's trying to give up.

Something on the scanner interests him and he wanders back to

the living room. There's a call going out for "David 72 Sam 3."

David 72 acknowledges and BERLIN clearly recognizes the voice.

"We have a 927D/ Springfield Street/ City Dump." But David 72

is already hired. "I'm outside Emersons/ I wanna be the first

horrible face of her day." BERLIN exhales through a smile. The

Controller needs an E.T.A. for the 927? David 72 doesn't know.

Advises her to roll a couple of cars and "Secure the location."

9:
EXT. HILLSIDE. SPRINGFIELD STREET. EUREKA. DAY.

A Chevrolet zig-zags up a shabby canyon. It's the road to the

city dump. Its final bend reveals a line of bellowing garbage

trucks. Everything is backed up. Nothing moves except the car.

The cause of the hold-up is explained at the top. A Sheriff's

car blocks the road. A Uniform moves to wave the Chevrolet in.

10:
EXT. ENTRANCE/TRACK/INFILL. CITY DUMP. EUREKA. DAY.

The car parks at a weigh-house and a man in his 50's gets out.

Looks like he hasn't slept in a while. And got the mood to go

with it. Sports jacket and cowboy boots. A lot of laugh lines

around the eyes. But you wouldn't want to get arrested by him.

And especially not this morning. His name is FREDERICK T ROSS.

TRAVIS:

You can drive down there, Sir ..

ROSS:

I'm already walking. Where is it?

One of those walking with him is a 10-year-old Kid with a Dog.

TRAVIS looks almost too young to own his struggling moustache.

TRAVIS:

On the infill. The guy from

L.A.'s just gone down there ..

ROSS:

He has? .. What's he doing here?

TRAVIS:

He was waiting for you, Sir. Wait-

ed a good while. Said he'd go down

and take a look. I hope that's O.K.

The track sinks through a valley of a million discarded tires.

ROSS:

Damn A, it's O.K. With a bit of

luck I'm goin home. What we got?

TRAVIS:

A derelict.

TRIMBLE:

They cut his throat ..

The information comes from freckles and a missing front tooth.

ROSS:

Who are you?

TRIMBLE:

Trimble.

He wears glasses and wields a rusty .22 pump-action Remington.

ROSS:

Where do you fit in, Trimble?

TRAVIS:

His father's the manager, Sir.

The kid was up there shooting

vermin, and he found the body.

TRIMBLE:

Get ready for it, coz I'm tell-

ing ya, you're in for a shock ..

TRIMBLE speaks with some enthusiasm. ROSS looks back with none.

They slit him from "ear to ear."

Ya want me to make a statement?

ROSS:

Not right now. No. Thank you.

11:
EXT. WORKING FACE. INFILL. GARBAGE DUMP. DAY.

A series of terraces have been created as the canyon fills up.

Black smoke drifts from a distance at will of the wind. Gulls

and bulldozers. Plus a stinking ten foot cliff of human filth.

Several cars parked here including the blue Mercedes. Several

On Lookers behind yellow police tape. ROSS negotiates it look-

ing pissed off. Looks up and somewhere in the smoke is BERLIN.

ROSS:

Did you bring it with you?

BERLIN:

I hope I'm not intruding?

ROSS:

Be my guest. What you got?

BERLIN:

Old guy, offed himself with a

knife. I can't find the knife.

And the next thing ROSS is looking at is a death in the trash.

A massive dozer in the background. Everything else is garbage.

TRIMBLE:

They cut his throat.

ROSS:

Would you get outside the tape.

And tell your dad to put that

fire out ... that ain't legal ...

Another face here is so familiar ROSS hasn't bothered to ackn-

owledge it. BLATTIS is a 32 year old local newspaper reporter.

Little is visible of the body except a blood-stained raincoat.

TRAVIS:

I wonder what would make

him do a thing like that?

ROSS:

Don't annoy me, Travis.

TRAVIS:

No, Sir.

Truck horns wail in the distance. On the horizon it's thunder.

ROSS:

So where's the knife?

BERLIN wears surgical gloves. Removes film from a small camera.

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