I wanted to give props to Bambi, who sent me an e-mail thanking me for mentioning the Jordan's Furniture commercial in my last recap. Glad someone out there got the reference.
Hitchcock-on-speed credits, interspersed with scenes from the past three episodes, including one with a ghostly and transparent image of the late Mrs. Dr. Kimble smiling gently over Kimble's shoulder as he studies a piece of paper. I guess that's what you call having an angel on your shoulder. Or a monkey on your back. Heh. The blue computer map whizzes us to Charleston, South Carolina. If only Lt. Bubba Gerard had that map on his bedroom wall!
It's a rainy day in Charleston, and Kimble is making himself conspicuous by walking down the street in shorts and a sleeveless shirt. The better to show off his sinewy biceps, of course. Two women walking by in chic business suits give the female equivalent of a construction worker's whistle as they look him over. They giggle. Kimble, ever the stalwart and stoic Fugitive, ignores this as he crosses the street and enters a laundromat. As the clothes rumble and tumble through their cycles, Kimble reads a book, and the expositional slo-mo effect takes us into his reflective memories. The One-Armed Man, his wife bleeding to death on the floor (I do think we've seen enough of this memory, because, frankly, the odd jerking movements she does really creep me out), One-Arm's fake passports, Lt. Bubba receiving the passports, the sound of heartbeats, the package stamped Charleston, S.C. -- a-ha! That's why we are here tonight.
Kimble is startled out of his thoughts when a fellow clothes-washer drops some change. Kimble hands it back to her, and she tries to engage him in conversation. She notes that he has a plastic bag from a local hotel, and she starts asking a bunch of questions about it. Kimble answers them all tersely, and we learn that he is employed there. She half-jokes that she could say she was his cousin and get a good rate there. Kimble doesn't say anything and starts to move his wet laundry into a dryer. "Oh, use that one," the woman says, gesturing at the one she just finished using, "it's still got some time left on it." Kimble thanks her, still holding true to his terseness, and she busies herself with her clothes. "I'm Mia, by the way," she says. No reaction from Kimble. And because she couldn't take a hint if it were smothered in caviar and served with a lemon wedge, she asks, "And what's your name?" Kimble just stares rather stonily at her. "In case I want to try the cousin thing," Mia explains. Pushy little mite, isn't she? Kimble didn't even agree to that idea. "Ray Pettiford," Kimble tells her, keeping the same name from last week. Good plan, that. Otherwise the time will come when someone asks your name and you'll sit there thinking, "Bill Bixby? No, that was Seattle. Bruce Banner? Uh-uh, that's the one when I escaped jumping off something," and before you can figure it out, Lt. Bubba has slapped the cuffs on you. Mia tells him somewhat playfully that he doesn't look like a Ray. Kimble just looks at her as if to say, "Now what do I do with a comment like that?" Mia picks up her laundry, holds it against her face, and says, "Warm." Again, Kimble just looks at her. Since the one-hour of recreation time the local nut house allows her is up, Mia finally leaves. ["Did she read in a book from, like, 1978 that the laundromat is a good place to pick up guys? Seriously, Mia? Drop the chalupa." -- Sars]
Kimble's sister's lawyer is being lawyerly on the phone as Lt. Bubba putters around his office, waiting for him to get off. "Don't say 'manslaughter' like you're doing me a favor. Look, I don't have to think about it. You think about it!" he snipes as he slams the phone down. Lt. Bubba drops the packet of passports wrapped in Kimble's note on his desk. "More good news?" the lawyer asks. "Junk mail," Lt. Bubba tells him. The lawyer gingerly lifts up one edge of the paper with a pen and examines the passports. He asks if Richard sent them, and then asks who the handsome devil in the falsified passports is. "Well, that's who killed Helen Kimble, case closed," Lt. Bubba says brightly. The lawyer is confused. "Your client's famous one-armed man theory is right up there with 'The dingo ate my baby,'" explains Lt. Bubba. The lawyer says he's going to want the passports checked for fingerprints. Lt. Bubba tells him he already did that, and the only prints on there are from Kimble. "And this man here?" Lt. Bubba points at One-Arm's face: "The one who's supposed to be in Florida, Savannah, wherever? Ben Shonquist, and he's got a full jacket of offenses: assault, DND, loan sharking, dealing. And you know what else he's got? A death certificate." "He's dead?" the lawyer asks. "Overdosed in '93," Lt. Bubba says confidently. The lawyer leans back in his chair, presses his fingers together, and fixes Lt. Bubba with a look. "Interesting that you checked into all this," he comments. "You must be having second thoughts." Lt. Bubba leans over the desk and growls, "Don't you even try to lawyer me. And don't you let me find out that you had anything to do with this." The lawyer tells him he didn't. Lt. Bubba goes on with his growling: "And if Dr. Kimble thinks this arts-and-crafts project is going to get his conviction overturned, he's desperately wrong." The lawyer says he'll pass along the message to Kimble if he ever talks to him again. "Do that," Lt. Bubba sneers. The lawyer reaches for the fake passports and asks if Lt. Bubba minds him "borrowing" them. Lt. Bubba snatches them from his grasp: "I mind." Jeez, simmer down there! I'm still snorting in my beer over the idea of Kimble doing an "arts-and-crafts project."