New opening credits in which Sam explains his mysterious time-travel predicament to any viewers just tuning in. If you're going to give the viewing public that little credit for following along, ABC, why not just compose a Beverly Hillbillies-esque theme song that painstakingly spells out all the major plot points?

We're back at the storage closet that doubles as an interrogation room at the 125th. The suspect -- let's just call him Kim Trent -- is still wearing nothing but a Speedo, a mustache, and a churlish attitude. I realize keeping Trent in a state of undress is supposed to ramp up his discomfort level... but what about my comfort level? I haven't broken any laws -- or at least, nothing as flagrant as committing a series of robberies at check-cashing joints around the city and leaving a body at each of the three knocked-over stores, which Mr. Trent stands accused of. What's more the three dead people wound up shot even though they were ensconced behind bullet-proof glass with no apparent signs of struggle. Trent is as sympathetic to the news of their demise as he is clothed, which is to say not very much at all. "Any chance I'm gonna get sprung any time soon?" Trent demands. "Laugh-In is on tonight, and I got it bad for that Goldie Hawn." Which is a shame as she left the show in 1970. Anyhow, Hunt must be more a Judy Carne fan, because after some back-and-forth about what Trent was doing at the pool, Hunt is twisting his nose and making him scream "Uncle." Sam looks on disapprovingly and then asks Trent what someone who can't swim is doing hanging out the pool. Learning by osmosis? "Learning the backstroke ain't a crime, is it?" Trent says, feigning innocence. Well, it is Nixon's America, so you never know. Hunt produces a stack of bills and waves them under Trent's nose -- found this wad on you when you were arrested, sport. Care to explain that? Sadly, Trent has a grasp on deductive reasoning: "That isn't my scratch," he protests. "If it was, wouldn't it be wet?" Valid point -- so valid that Hunt takes a pitcher of water and pours it over the stack of bills, tossing the remainder of the liquid in Trent's face. Check and mate, jerk.