Lethal Weapon Script
FADE IN:
CITY OF ANGELS
lies spread out beneath us in all its splendor, like a
bargain basement Promised Land.
CAMERA SOARS, DIPS, WINDS its way SLOWLY DOWN, DOWN,
bringing us IN OVER the city as we:
SUPER MAIN TITLES.
TITLES END, as we --
SPIRAL DOWN TOWARD a lush, high-rise apartment complex.
The moon reflected in glass.
CAMERA CONTINUES TO MOVE IN THROUGH billowing curtains,
INTO the inner sanctum of a penthouse apartment, and
here, boys and girls, is where we lose our breath,
because --
spread-eagled on a sumptuous designer sofa lies the
single most beautiful GIRL in the city.
Blonde hair. A satin nightgown that positively glows.
Sam Cooke MUSIC, crooning from five hundred dollar
SPEAKERS.
PASTEL colors. Window walls. New wave furniture tor-
tured into weird shapes. It looks like robots live here.
On the table next to the sleeping Venus lies an open
bottle of pills ... next to that, a mirror dusted with
cocaine.
She rouses herself to smear some powder on her gums.
As she does, we see from her eyes that she is thoroughly,
completely whacked out of her mind...
She stands, stumbles across the room, pausing to glance
at a photograph on the wall:
Two men. Soldiers. Young, rough-hewn, arms around each
other.
The Girl throws open the glass doors ... steps out onto a
balcony, and there, beneath her, lies all of nighttime
L.A. Panoramic splendor. Her hair flies, her expression.
rapt, as she stands against this sea of technology. She
is beautiful.
On the balcony railing beside her stand three potted
plants.
The Girl sees them, picks one up. Looks over the balcony
railing ... It is ten stories down to the parking lot.
she squints, holds the plant over the edge.
GIRL
Red car.
Drops the plant. Down it goes, spiralling end over end
-- until, finally ... BAM -- ! SHATTERS. Dirt flies. A
red Chevy is now minus a WINDSHIELD. The Girl takes
another plant.
GIRL
Green car.
She drops it. Green Dodge. Ten stories below, BAM
Impact city. Scratch one paint job. Grabs the final
plant and holds it out, saying:
GIRL
Blue car.
POW. GLASS SHATTERS. Dirt sprays. A blue BMW this
time. The Girl loves this game ... her expression is
slightly crazed. She reaches for another plant --
There aren’t any. Her smile fades -- And for a moment,
just a moment, the dullness leaves her eyes and she is
suddenly, incredibly sober. And tears fill her eyes as
she looks over the edge --
GIRL
Yellow car.
And jumps the railing. Plummets, head over heels like a
rag doll. Hits the yellow car spot on. She lies, dead,
like an extinguished dream. Still beautiful.
CUT TO:
1A EXT. BENEATH THE PIER NIGHT 1A
FOUR TOUGH-LOOKING DOCK WORKERS are camped out under the
pier, warming themselves around a small bonfire, laughing
loudly. Christmas decorations dangle above them from the
pier, and empty beer cans litter the sand around them.
CAMERA PUSHES IN to discover an old collie tied to one of
the pilings. Then we realize that the dog is being tor-
mented by the dock workers. They flick lighted matches
at him. Shake their beers and spray him in the face.
These guys are not rocket scientists.
The dog cowers, tugging bn the rope. Tries to get away.
All to the great amusement of its tormentors.
One of them turns, laughing --
As a shadowy FIGURE strides calmly up to the fire:
Long hair.
Cigarette dangling from-lower lip.
Shirt-tails hanging loose below the waist.
Nothing threatening in his manner as he plops down beside
the men, smiling.
They are immediately on their guard.
RIGGS (FIGURE)
Happy holidays. Mind if I join
you?
PUNK #1
Yes.
PUNK #2
Fuck off.
Riggs smiles at him innocently. Strokes the collie’s fur
with one hand.
With the other, he reaches intb a paper sack and produces,
a spanking new bottle of Jack Daniels, possibly the finest
drink mankind has yet produced.
RIGGS
I need help drinking this. Cool?
The dock workers exchange glances. There seems to be no
harm in this. One of them frowns:
PUNK #1
You a homo?
RIGGS
Do I look like a homo?
PUNK #1
You got long hair. Homos got long
hair.
PUNK #3
I hate homos. Arrggh.
Riggs shakes his head, laughs.
RIGGS
Boy, you guys are terrific. You
make me laugh, you just do.
At which point, appropriately enough, Punk #4 shakes a
beer and sprays it in the old collie’s face.
The DOG pulls away, WHINING.
Riggs leans forward.
RIGGS
This your dog? Nice dog.
And then, he proceeds to do a peculiar thing:
He starts to talk to the dog --
in what seems to be the dog’s own language.
Very weird, folks...
He coos, snuffles, barks softly, then withdraws,
listening, his ear to the dog’s muzzle.
Riggs nods. Frowns.
The others look on, puzzled.
Then Riggs looks at each of the four dock workers.
RIGGS
Huh- You know what? He says he
doesn’t want you to spray beer in
his face. He says he just hates
that.
A pause. Uncomfortable. Then --
PUNK #1
Oh, he does ... ?
(beat)
Well, mister, why don’t you ask
him what he likes...?
The others snicker. Riggs simply nods.
RIGGS
Okay.
And once again, begins to confer with the dog. Listens
intently, piecing together what he is hearing.
RIGGS
What ... ? You want ... oh. Oh,
hell no, I couldn’t do that ...
Nossirree bob, you little nut.
He ruffles the dog’s hair.
The men are more puzzled than ever as Riggs turns and
says:
RIGGS
(chuckling)
Get this: He wants me to beat
the shit out of you guys.
Everything stops. A cloud passes over the assembled
faces and a pin-dropping silence ensues.
Riggs, completely heedless, once again attends to the dog:
RIGGS
What’s that ... ? The one ... in the
middle... ’is a stupid fat duck’...
What ... ?
(listens again)
Oh ... Oh! A ’stupid fat fuck!’
Right.
He looks up, shakes his head.
RIGGS
Boy, this dog is pissed.
The one in the middle grabs Riggs by the collar.
Hoists him to his feet. Gulp.
Stands, staring down at Riggs, whose eyes are completely
neutral, like a snake’s.
PUNK #1
Buddy, you’re shortening your
life span.
He flicks open a mean-looking switchblade.
Riggs is dead meat.
So why then, does he choose this moment to execute a
Three Stooges’ routine, consisting of nose tweak, eye
gouge, and rotating fist that bobs the dock worker on
the head... ?
He’s nuts or something ...
Riggs steps back and adopts a neutral fighting stance.
The others begin to circle.
The DOG BARKS. Riggs turns to the dog, but his eyes never
leave his grinning attackers.
RIGGS
(to the collie)
What’s that ... ? You want me to
take the knife away... and break
his elbow... ?
Circling ...
Riggs, watching them, his eyes beginning to dance ...
Breathing slow and even...
RIGGS
But that would be excruciatingly
painful ...
Something inside Riggs is gearing up ... the others can
perhaps sense it, their smiles falter a bit, they crouch,
combat-ready...
Riggs, eyes blazing ...
RIGGS
And if I separated the fat one’s
shoulder... he’d probably scream...
No doubt about it. We know from the look in Riggs’ eyes
he’s nuts. He wants the fight, badly, all four of them
at once ...
And then Punk #1 springs...
Big mistake.
Needless to say, mincemeat is made of the four meddlesome
dog-torturers.
The beach is littered with their writhing forms as Riggs
does, finally, what he set out to do:
Unties the dog.
Starts to go.
As he does, he pats his shirt ...
Pats his jeans ... Realizes his wallet has flown free
during the fracas.
Scoops to retrieve it from its resting place on the sand,
where it lies open, and as it lies open, yes, folks, that
is a badge we see.
Riggs, we realize, is an officer of the law.
He lights a cigarette and notices the collie, seated.
Frowns:
RIGGS
Okay, skeezix. Go on. Get outta
here.
He begins to walk away. The dog remains close at his
heels. Following him.
RIGGS
No, no. Don’t follow me. I’m an
asshole. Go away.
The dog sits obediently and Riggs walks away.
He can’t help it, looks back over his shoulder...
Sees the dog watching him with a beseeching expression.
Pitiful.
RIGGS
Aw, shit.
He signals the dog.
RIGGS
Awright. Move it. Let’s go.
The COLLIE BARKS happily and dashes toward him through
the surf, kicking up sand and water.
As they shuffle off against the palm-lined skyline, we
hear, supered, Riggs’ voice.
RIGGS (V.O.)
So. You live in the area? What’s
your major ... ?
And so on as we ...
CUT TO:
2 OMITTED 2
thru thru
4D 4D
5 EXT. MURTAUGH’S HOUSE - PRE-DAWN 5
Palm trees cast shadows on the lawn. Toys, lots of them,
littered across the lawn. A Big Wheel, a G.I. Joe figure.
Christmas lights are strung across the eaves.
CUT TO:
6 INT. HOUSE - BATHROOM SAME 6
A real gun, a .38 Police Special, dangling in its hol-
ster from the back of a chair. Next to it -- A real
badge, gleaming in the light. It identifies its owner
as LAPD Robbery/Homicide.
7 ANOTHER ANGLE 7
A birthday cake comes INTO FRAME. A set of matronly
hands places it directly in front of --
8 DETECTIVE ROGER MURTAUGH 8
Seated in the bathtub. He groans, throws a towel over
himself, and mutters in mock indignation: Roger is
tough: An old-fashioned fighter, wears his past like a
scar. Piercing eyes; cynical. He is surrounded by his
family; wife and three children, names and ages as
follows: TRISH: Roughly thirty-eight. She used to be a
stunner. NICK: Ten years old. Precocious. CARRIE:
Age seven. Eyes like saucers. Adorable. RIANNE:
Heartbreaker stuff, Seventeen. Takes your breath away
folks. The cake is a real beauty.
CARRIE
Make a wish, Daddy.
RIANNE
Go for it, Dad.
MURTAUGH
(smiles)
Go for it, huh...? Okay, I’ll
go for it.
He blows out the candles. Applause. His gaze lingers
on -- the cake. Or rather, the message scrawled atop it
in icing: WELCOME TO THE BIG 50
The presents arrive.
CUT TO:
9 EXT. SIMI VALLEY - MORNING 9
The scorched landscape stretches out beneath a lattice-
work of high-tension power lines. only scrub grass
grows here. Rusted railroad tracks wander into the dis-
tance, and nestled beside them, like the last stop be-
fore death -- sits a lonely trailer home. Battered TV
antenna. A dirt yard which houses a beat-up pickup
truck. Dead garden sprouting weeds. The ground begins
to tremble ... like an earthquake, RATTLING the POWER
POLES, as, without warning -- An express TRAIN BLASTS
BY CAMEPA and streaks past the trailer at seventy miles
an hour.
10 INT. TRAILER HOME 10
Now we are inside, the RUMBLING FAINTER ... And we are
looking at a tired, chiseled face. Etched with line and
shadow. Eyes closed, as the shadows from the speeding
train strobe across DETECTIVE SERGEANT MARTIN RIGGS.
Morning is not a good time for Riggs. The CLOCK RADIO
suddenly BLARES to life: "Silver Belllls ... It’s
Christmas Tiiime in the City..." Riggs snaps awake
instantly. Alert. Tense. Face bathed in sweat.
11 ANOTHER ANGLE
He is not alone. In the doorway sits a thoroughly
loveable black Labrador. Sitting stock still. Star3.ng
at Riggs, watching him sleep. Tail going thump-thump-
thump on the carpet.
Riggs sits up. Stares at the dog.
RIGGS
Sam, today is the first day ...
of the rest of my life.
He lights a cigarette. Inhales.
Coughs and hacks.
The TRAIN THROBS by outside, rattling his skull ...
CUT TO:
12 INT. MURTAUGH HOME - SAME TIME 12
And it is a typical morning for Detective Roger Murtaugh.
Chaos. The TELEVISION BLARES. Young Carrie Murtaugh
wails like a banshee. Her brother Nick tells her to
shut up. Trish Murtaugh is burning eggs in the kitchen.
Roger Murtaugh enters then, fixing his tie. The follow-
ing dialogue is fast and furious, tossed over the shoul-
der as Murtaugh scurries to and fro, getting dressed:
MURTAUGH
Honey, what’s this on my tie?
She looks.
TRISH
An ugly spot?
MURTAUGH
Thanks. Sharp as a pin.
TRISH
I’m thinking of going on ’Jeopardy.’
MURTAUGH
Don’t take any questions on cooking.
TRISH
Thanks. I love you, too.
Carrie is still shrieking. Tears stream down her face.
MURTAUGH
Hey, kid, turn off the waterworks,
okay?
CARRIE
(points to Nick)
Daddy, he changed the channel!
MURTAUGH
NOOOOOO.
NICK
She’s a crybaby, Dad.
MURTAUGH
Mind your own busines.
(nods toward the TV)
That’s illegal.
NICK
What’s illegal?
MURTAUGH
Can’t put a dead body in an
ambulance. This ’Kojak’?
NICK
’Starsky and Hutch.’
MURTAUGH
Huh. It’s illegal. Never put a
dead body in an ambulance, son,
you got that?
NICK
Sure, Dad.
MURTAUGH
Honey, where’s the spot remover?
(turns to Carrie)
Young lady, stop crying or I’ll
give you something to cry about.
Damn.
He dabs at his tie. Carrie screams. In the kitchen
Trish drops the eggs, swears. The PHONE RINGS. Carrie
screams.
MURTAUGH
That’s it. I’m gonna give you
something to cry about.
He grabs a copy of Newsweek and hands it to her.
MURTAUGH
Starving children. See? They
haven’t eaten, it’s very sad.
Cry.
He moves away.
CARRIE
Daddy, you’re weird ...
MURTAUGH
Thank you, Carrie. Hear that,
honey, the children think I’m
weird.
TRISH
They’re bright children.
(hangs up the
telephone)
Honey, you know a man named Dick
Lloyd? Don’t step in the egg.
MURTAUGH
Where’s my thinking? I should’ve
checked the floor for egg. Dick
Lloyd ... ?
(beat)
Jesus, Dick Lloyd. What’s he want?
TRISH
The office called. He’s been
trying to reach you for three days
now.
MURTAUGH
I haven’t talked to him in... shit,
twelve years? No, wait a minute,
that would make me fifty years old,
that can’t be right.
TRISH
(smiles)
You’re not getting older, you’re
getting better.
MURTAUGH
Inform the children of this.
(kisses her; heads
for the door)
Forget the eggs, I’ll eat later.
TRISH
Whatever.
(beat)
Honey?
(as he stops)
How come I never heard of Dick
Lloyd?
MURTAUGH
I never talked about him.
TRISH
Oh.
(beat)
Vietnam buddy?
MURTAUGH
Yeah. Vietnam buddy.
He exits the kitchen, crosses the entrance hall. Stops,
noticing Rickles the cat, who is happily munching on the
remains of Roger’s birthday cake.
MURTAUGH
Hey.
He swats it aside. Pauses, his gaze lingering on the
silent message which gnaws at his guts.
THE BIG 50 ...
He comes out the front door. Flicks off the Christmas
lights, crosses to the car. Looks up, and sees -- his
oldest daughter Rianne. Jogging past. She wears an
adorable pair of dolphin shorts. Walkman headphones.
She waves.
RIANNE
’Bye, Daddy.
He waves.
MURTAUGH
(shakes his head)
Goddamn heartbreaker. She’s a
heartbreaker.
CUT TO:
13 SERIES OF SHOTS - RIGGS GETTING DRESSED 13
Riggs enters the living room, naked. Scars on his back,
the kind you get from knives. Runs a hand through limp
hair. Turns on the lamp. As he does -- the TELEVISION
also springs to life; hooked to the same circuit. Pops
three aspirin from a bottle. Chews thein.
Opens a bag of peanuts, throws it to the big Lab, who
gobbles them down.
Eats a sandwich, standing in the middle of his apartment.
’Looking at the floor. What a lonely fucking guy ...
Straps on his gun. .9 millimeter Beretta, if it matters.
Throws on a jacket. Downs a shot of whiskey. Pauses,
looking at a photograph on the wall. Riggs, much younger,
along with a pretty and vivacious woman in a wedding gown:
his wife. Stares at the photograph. His fingers twirl
the whiskey glass with completely unconscious skill.
Tense. Tense ... twirling the glass ... RICHARD DAWSON
DRONES from the TV (our survey says -- !). Riggs slings
the shotglass. Dead center, SHATTERING the TV SCREEN.
CUT TO:
14 INT. POLICE FIRING PANGE - MORNING 14
Targets: Human silhouettes with kill zones numbered.
Murtaugh enters. Sheds his coat, unholsters the .38.
Steps to the red line. Shifts. Stretches. Cracks his
neck. This is a ritual for him. He stops to examine his
right hand, holding it steady before his eyes. Except
there is a slight tremble. Tiny, but it’s there. He
frowns. Braces himself: Cross-draws with lightning
swiftness. -- BAM! -- The sound is DEAFENING in the
closed room. A neat round hole appears in the target.
Perfect shot: a neat third eye. Murtaugh smiles.
Holsters his gun. Puts on his coat -- and sings softly
to himself:
MURTAUGH
Happy birthday to me ...
CUT TO:
15 INT. CAR - DAY 15
Sergeant Martin Riggs is driving. He looks like he
hasn’t slept. He certainly hasn’t shaved. The DISPATCH
RADIO SQUAWKS. He turns down the MUSIC from the car
radio and hears:
DISPATCHER (V.0.)
All units in the vicinity and
Fourteen X-ray thirty-one,
shooting in progress at Venice
Beach, Washington and Navy.
Three victims down, PA en route
Fourteen X-ray thirty-one, handle
code three.
Riggs hits the gas pedal and PEELS OUT.
CUT TO:
16 EXT. CENTURY CITY PARKING LOT - MORNING 16
The sky threatens rain. Cars buzz by as the city
awakens.
A section of the parking lot is cordoned off by yellow
streamers which read: POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS, and
as we watch, a black and white patrol car pulls up,
admitting two beat COPS and a young hooker. Her name
is DIXIE, and she is not happy.
DIXIE
Can I stay in the car?
COP #1
No.
DIXIE
Aw, cut me a break. I told you
already: she came out on the
balcony --
COP #1
(points)
That balcony ... ?
DIXIE
-- No, the Chandler fucking
Pavillion, of course that fucking
balcony, and then slie jumped, and
then I puked in a trash can. Can
I go now?
COP #1
Not ’til you talk to the Sarge.
DIXIE
Terrific. Where the hell is he?
17 INT. MURTAUGH’S CAR 17
The sarge drives up and gets out. A BEAT COP Toes by.
BEAT COP
Happy 50th, Rog.
MURTAUGH
Fuck you.
He crosses to the two Cops and Dixie.
COP #2
Hey, Sarge.
MURTAUGH
’Morning, Phil. Get some rain,
looks like.
(beat)
Hey, Dixie. Nice threads.
DIXIE
Hey, Murtaugh. Tell these bozos
to lay Off.
MURTAUGH
You. Bozos. Lay off.
COP #1
Had a jumper last night, Sarge.
Dixie here was walking by, saw
the whole thing.
MURTAUGH
You got a statement? Send her
home.
DIXIE
Thanks, Rog. I’m beat, you know
how it is.
MURTAUGH
Sure.
(points to her
outfit)
All dressed up and no one to blow.
DIXIE
You’re hilarious.
She exits. Cop #2 escorts Murtaugh across the parking
lot.
COP #2
Nice wholesome girl. She got a
new job, you know.
MURTAUGH
What’s that?
COP #2
County ceiling inspector.
(beat)
So. Fifty years old, huh?
MURTAUGH
Eat me.
They stop next to the Porsche. Murtaugh grimaces.
COP #2
Name is Amanda Lloyd, age twenty-
two, prostitute, one arrest, no
convictions. Born Tennessee,
parents --
MURTAUGH
What was the name?
COP #2.
Lloyd. Amanda Lloyd. You know
her ... ?
Murtaugh looks stunned. He speaks very slowly:
MURTAUGH
I knew her dad.
COP #2
Jesus.
(an awkward pause)
Vehicle is registered to her. She
landed right on top of her own car.
MURTAUGH
Find out who bought it for her.
Her sugar daddy.
COP #2
Take some looking into.
MURTAUGH
So look.
CUT TO:
18 OMITTED
19 INT. AMANDA LLOYD’S APARTMENT - DAY 19
Murtaugh stares at the photograph we saw earlier. The
two soldiers. One, we can assume, is Dick Lloyd. The
other is Murtaugh. Younger, trimmer. He speaks into
the phone.
MURTAUGH
Hello, honey ... ? Give me the
number for Dick Lloyd. What ... ?
Yes, the man who called me this
morning. His daughter just took
a dive out a window.
19A EXT. CHRISTMAS TREE LOT - DAY 19A
Martin Riggs and three lot employees are gathered around
the liftgate of a truck bearing a load of Christmas trees.
The truck shields them from the view of customers picking
out trees in the lot.
The lot employees are actually DRUG DEALERS. They look
around nervously in all directions as Riggs tastes a
sample of their wares.
RIGGS
Good stuff.
DRUG DEALER ONE
You better fuckin’ believe it.
RIGGS
Okay. Let’s do it. How much?
DRUG DEALER TWO
How much for how much?
RIGGS
For all of it.
DRUG DEALER THREE
You want it all?
RIGGS
Yeah.
(glances at
the trees)
And maybe a nice big six-footer
to put it under.
DRUG DEALER ONE
The tree you can have for nuthin’.
But the shit is gonna run you a
hundred.
Riggs lets out a soft whistle at the amount.
RIGGS
That much, huh?
(digs into
his pocket)
Okay. Let’s see what I got.
He pulls out a roll of money and begins to count it out
in twenties and small bills.
RIGGS
Twenty, forty, sixty --
The Drug Dealers exchange dumbfounded expressions.
DRUG DEALER ONE
Hey, man. Hey!
RIGGS
Wait, wait ... shutup. I’m
losin count. Where was I? Oh,
yeah...
(continues to
peel off the
bills)
... Eight, ninety, ninety-five,
ninety-six, ninety-seven...
(digs into his
pocket for
loose change)
... Ninety-seven-fifty. Sixty.
Seventy-five. Okay, there’s
ninety-eight dollars and twenty
cents...
He is about to check his other pocket for change when
Drug Dealer One stops him.
DRUG DEALER ONE
Forget it, dumbshit.
RIGGS
C’mon. I’m almost there. Gimme
a minute to --
DRUG DEALER ONE
One hundred thousand, you stupid
fuck! One hundred thousand!
Riggs is floored. He can’t believe his ears.
RIGGS
Oh, Jesus ... I can’t afford that.
Not on my salary.
(beat)
Look... let’s do this instead ...
(pulls out his
wallet)
I take your complete stash, okay?
I take it all. For free. And
you assholes go to jail.
As he says this, he flips open his wallet and shows his
badge. The Drug Dealers at first look startled, then
disbelieving.
RIGGS
I could read you your rights,
but ... nah. You guys know what
your rights are.
DRUG DEALER ONE
Fuck you, man. That badge ain’t
real. And you ain’t real.
DRUG DEALER TWO
But you’re sure as hell one
crazy fuck!
Riggs’ eyes begin to blaze. His nostrils flare. Like
a maniac, he lunges at Drug Dealer Two.
RIGGS
You callin’ me crazy!? You
think I’m crazy! You, wanna see
crazy? I’ll show you crazy!
This is crazy!
Riggs then proceeds to slap and pummel the Drug Dealer
in the manner of the "Three Stooges"... complete with
"WOO-WOO" sound effects.
But he ends the routine by pulling a nine-millimeter
Baretta from behind his back and pressing it against
the neck of Drug Dealer Two.
RIGGS
That’s a real badge. I’m a real
cop. And this is a real gun.
(to the other two
Drug Dealers)
Face down on the ground. Arms
and legs out. Do it now!
Dealer One and Three begin to follow orders but Riggs
sees a flicker in their eves that him to trouble.
He spins around -- a FOURTH DRUG DEALER is behind him
with a shotgun. The SHOTGUN EXPLODES. Riggs ducks,
allowing Drug Dealer Two to take the full force of the
’blast in the face.
Riggs rolls in the sawdust FIRING his BERETTA.
Dealer Four takes a bullet between the eyes.
Dealer Two now has an AUTOMATIC RIFLE in his hand.
It CHATTERS in Riggs’ direction. Sawdust and pine
needles fly in the air -- but Riggs is able to blow
him away.
One more Drug Dealer left. Riggs can’t find him.
His eyes dart in all directions. Where is he?!
Behind Riggs, that’s where! He presses a revolver to
the back of Riggs’ head, taking Riggs’ Baretta from
him and tucking it into his belt.
That’s when:
19B FIVE NARCOTICS OFFICERS 19B
come running from their stakeout positions around the
lot. But they stop short when they see that Riggs is
being held with a gun pointed to his head.
The Drug Dealer begins to move with Riggs toward a van
parked nearby.
RIGGS
(to officers)
Shoot him! Shoot him!
DRUG DEALER
(to Riggs)
Shut up!
RIGGS
(to Drug Dealer)
Fuck you!
(to officers)
Shoot him! Shoot him!
The narcotics officers don’t know what to do. They
are frustrated. Helpless. Immobilized.
Riggs sees the van looming up. The van means defeat.
The van means disgrace. The van means victory for the
bad guys, and we know that Riggs would rather die than
be the instrument of the Dealer’s escape.
19C CLOSE ON RIGGS AND DRUG DEALER 19C
The veins are popping out in Riggs’ neck. The Drug
Dealer is getting nervous and panicky. His gun hand
is trembling. The barrel of the gun jiggles against
the back of Riggs’ head.
RIGGS
(to Drug Dealer)
Do it, asshole. Pull the trigger.
Pull the trigger.
DRUG DEALER
Shut the fuck up!
They move closer to the van. The narcotics officers
have their guns poised for action, but don’t dare use
them.
DRUG DEALER
(to officers)
Guns down! Guns down!
RIGGS
(to officers)
Shoot him! Kill him!
(to Dealer)
Pull the trigger!
(to officers).
Waste him!
(to Dealer)
Shoot me!
(to officers)
Kill him!!
The Dealer is so freaked now that his grip on Riggs
slips momentarily -- and Riggs sees his opening.
He spins. Kicks the Dealer in the groin. Dislocates
his arm -- sending tlie gun flying. Riggs retrieves his
Baretta from the Dealer’s belt and shoves the barrel
into the Dealer’s face.
Riggs’ entire body quakes with rage. His finger begins
to squeeze back on the trigger. He wants to kill the
guy so bad he can taste it... and yet, he doesn’t do it.
The other officers arrive and step between Riggs and
the Dealer.
Riggs turns away. Breatliing hard. Adrenalin pumping.
He tucks the Baretta into his belt, then notices that
his hand is covered with the spilled blood of one of
the Drug Dealers.
It gives Riggs pause. For a moment, he just looks at
it.
HOLD ON Riggs. VERY CLOSE. And the look in his eyes.
20 OMITTED 20
thru thru
25 25
26 INT. METRO SQUAD ROOM - MORNING 26
Police have seldom looked this busy. Yes, there are
RINGING PHONES. Yes, there are CLATTERING TYPEWRITERS.
Yes, it looks like a circus. And here comes Captain of
Detectives ED MURPHY, moving like an after-breakfast
juggernaut. Behind him, a young woman rushes to keep up.
The POLICE PSYCHOLOGIST, no less.
PSYCHOLOGIST
I want Martin Riggs pulled from
duty.
MURPHY
Um... no.
PSYCHOLOGIST
No. No??? Captain, he walked
into the line of fire.
MURPHY
Very brave individual, don’t
you think... ?
PSYCHOLOGIST
This is utter bullshit.
MURPHY
Oh, is it? Forgive me.
PSYCHOLOGIST
Martin Riggs is a cop with a
death wish.
Murphy shoots her an incredulous look.
PSYCHOLOGIST
You can quote me. It happens to
be my professional opinion.
MURPHY
Um... good opinion. See you
tomorrow.
PSYCHOLOGIST
Captain...
MURPHY
Look, Doc, you’re way off. Way
off. Know what I think? I think
Riggs is pulling for a psycho
pension.
PSYCHOLOGIST
Oh, do you?
MURPHY
Yeah. I am sure you’re aware the
department offers a disability
stress pension --
PSYCHOLOGIST
Yes, I’m aware --
MURPHY
-- Except we don’t offer it to
everybody, only cops who seem to
suffer from
PSYCHOLOGIST
-- From abnormal stress, yes, I
know. Or suicidal tendencies.
MURPHY
Give the lady a cigar.
PSYCHOLOGIST
You think Riggs is playing a game?
MURPHY
Sure. He wants the cash. Seen
it a hundred times. He’ll come
around.
PSYCHOLOGIST
Sir, with all due respect ... I
think that’s a dangerous attitude
to take. May I remind you that
his wife of eleven years was
recently killed in a car accident,
and
MURPHY
I know all about Riggs, Doc. He’s
a tough bastard.
PSYCHOLOGIST
(intense)
He is on the edge. He may be
psychotic.
MURPHY
Bunch of psych bullshit- Look,
can I pee now?
PSYCHOLOGIST
I think you’re making a mistake
by leaving him in the field.
He’s suicidal.
MURPHY
End of discussion. We’re gonna
wait. And then, if he offs
himself ... Well, then we’ll know
I was wrong.
PSYCHOLOGIST
Yes, sir. Then we’ll know.
CUT TO:
27 EXT. SIMI VALLEY - NIGHT 27
Rain&n