When we return from the break, we're back at the 125th Precinct, where Hunt, Carling, and Sam are interrogating Dora, the last person to see Suzy Tripper alive. The interrogation is not going swimmingly, as Dora's cousin once found him on the business end of one of Gene Hunt's question-and-answer sessions. Apparently, her cousin didn't much care for the answer to "How would you feel if I broke your collarbone?" Sam decides a different tack is necessary: "My name is Detective Tyler, but please call me Sam." Dora is pretty sure polite deference can't possibly be displayed by someone in law enforcement, but Sam persists -- did she see Suzy talking with anyone on the night in question? "The answer, Detective Tyler," Dora says pissily, "is blowing in the wind." Hunt decides he's had enough of this Bad Cop-Impotent Cop routine and grabs Dora roughly by the shoulders. She demands to see a lawyer, and when Sam protests, Hunt invites him to get lost, so that he can get down to some serious interrogating, Keitel-style.
I don't know about you, but when my boss acts like Miranda is just some Brazilian night club performer, I beat feet to the nearest bar. Sam must be the same way, because he's fled to a police watering hole where he's pestering the bartender about "what part of my subconscious do you hail from?" "Poughkeepsie," the bartender says without missing a beat. Sam orders a Diet Coke, which starts us off on another round of Diet-Cokes-don't-exist-in-1973-blah-blah-blah back-and-forth. Fortunately, Hunt walks in to spare us any terribly long dialogues about the kind of society that tolerates diet sodas. "You know where I come from, you'd be looking at a suspension," begins Sam, still smarting over the way Hunt treated that witness. Hunt thinks that's highly unlikely, given how he strong-armed her into giving up a description of the suspect -- a white male with long, dark hair. "That's what I call narrowing the gap," Hunt says, with a Palin-esque wink. Sam protests that it wasn't hair he found under the fingernails -- it's a synthetic fiber, which means the killer is either wearing thick gloves or he's using a bag. Or she was attacked by a sports mascot. Someone get an APB out on Mr. Met -- I never trusted that guy. Hunt thinks Sam is jumping to an awful lot of conclusions after having spent such little time in the morgue. Trust me, Sam insists -- I've seen this sort of thing before. Hunt ignores him. "You don't have to listen to me," a clearly irritated Sam sighs. "After all, you're just a bottom-feeding thug who crawled out of some dark pit in the recesses of my mind." Hunt does not take this as the compliment that Sam surely intends it to be: "Here's what you need to get smart on quick... my team's tight. We collar the baddies to keep this island safe. I never give up, and I always go for the maximum. When my time is done, they will say, 'He has been here.' Of that, I am sure. He. Has. Been. Here." It seems like this would have been a much nicer orientation speech than punching Sam in the ol' breadbasket.