Se7en Page #18

The reporter squirms, holds up a laminated press pass on a cord

around his neck.

REPORTER:

I have a right, Officer. I...

Mills shoves him, and the reporter stumbles a few steps, then

falls to the landing below with a thud.

MILLS:

That doesn't mean anything! This is a

closed crime scene!

Somerset comes to pull Mills back. The shaken reporter stands

uneasily.

REPORTER:

You can't do this! You can't...

MILLS:

Get the f*** out of here!

The reporter scrambles down the nest flight, out of sight.

REPORTER (o.s.)

The public has a right to know!

Somerset yanks Mills back harder, till Mills sits on the stairs.

MILLS:

How do those cockroaches get here so quick?

SOMERSET:

They pay cops for the inside scoop, and

they pay well.

MILLS:

(calming)

Sorry about that... I just...

SOMERSET:

(sarcastic)

Oh, it's alright.

Somerset starts back up the stairs.

SOMERSET:

It's always impressive to see a man feeding

off his emotions.

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM -- DAY

Somerset and Mills are with DOCTOR BEARDSLEY. Victor lies inside

an oxygen tent with tubes running into him. The room is dim.

DOCTOR:

A year of immobility seems about right,

judging by the deterioration of the muscles

and the spine. Blood tests show a whole

smorgasbord of drugs in his systems; from

crack to heroin... even an antibiotic which

must have been administered to keep the bed

sores from infecting.

Mills looks into the oxygen tent.

MILLS:

He hasn't said anything, or tried to

express himself in any way?

DOCTOR:

Even if his brain were not mush, which it

is... he chewed off his own tongue long

ago.

Mills winces, moves away from the bed.

SOMERSET:

There's no way he'll survive?

DOCTOR:

Detective, he'd die right how of shock if

you were to shine a flashlight in his eyes.

Silence for a moment, then the doctor lets out a chuckle.

DOCTOR:

It's funny to think... he's experienced

about as much pain and suffering as anyone

I've encountered... give or take... and he

still has hell to look forward to.

He chuckles again, engrossed in some information on a clipboard.

Mills looks to Somerset like, "this guy's nuts."

INT. PRECINCT HOUSE, SOMERSET'S OFFICE -- DAY

A blackboard is nailed to the wall. Written in chalk:

1 gluttony (x) 5 wrath

2 greed (x) 6 pride

3 sloth (x) 7 lust

4 envy

Somerset and Mills are at their paperwork covered desks.

SOMERSET:

((reading one sheet)

Victor's landlord says an envelope of cash

was in the office mailbox each month. He

says, quote, "I never heard a single

complaint from the tenant in apartment

three-o-one, and nobody ever complained

about him. He's the best tenant I've ever

had.

MILLS:

A landlord's dream tenant: a paralyzed man

with no tongue.

SOMERSET:

Who pays the rent on time.

Somerset turns to the typewriter, types. Mills fills out a form

by hand. He make an error and tries to erase, but the paper

rips. He curses, crumples the paper and throws it.

MILLS:

I'm sick of sitting around, waiting for him

to kill again.

SOMERSET:

This is the job. It's not an Easter egg

hunt.

MILLS:

There must be something in this pile of

garbage we can follow. I mean, Christ...

do we have to let this lunatic make all the

moves.

SOMERSET:

It's too dismissive to call him a lunatic.

We can't make that mistake.

MILLS:

Oh, blah, blah, blah. The guy's insane.

SOMERSET:

It's a fine line between insane and

inspired.

MILLS:

Hey, Freud, what brand of bullshit are you

shoveling, huh? Right now he's probably

dancing around his room in a pair of his

mommy's panties, singing show tunes and

rubbing himself with peanut butter...

SOMERSET:

No.

MILLS:

Sooner or later his luck's going to run

out.

SOMERSET:

No. He's not depending on luck. You've

seen that. We walked into that apartment

exactly one year after he first tied Victor

to the bed, to the day. To the day!

Because he wanted us to.

MILLS:

We don't know for sure...

SOMERSET:

Yes we do. Here...

Somerset picks up the photocopy of the first note.

SOMERSET:

This quote... his first words to us. I

looked it up. It's from Milton's Paradise

Lost. "Long is the way, and hard, that out

of hell leads up to light... "

MILLS:

And so what?

SOMERSET:

Well, he's been right so far, hasn't he?

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