Concussion Page #4

CHERRY PAGES 1.21.15 8.

WECHT (CONT'D)

(Bennet’s giving nothing)

And we talked about the knives.

You’re still throwing them away.

They’re expensive. This is

Pittsburgh. We’re a public agency.

BENNET:

Would you want me to cut open your

mother with the knife I used on a

serial killer?

WECHT:

Don’t tempt me. I’d probably

request it.

Wecht sighs. Bennet’s not wrong. But still--

WECHT (CONT’D)

Danny may look like a butcher,

smokes three packs a day, but he’s

one of life’s unpleasant

necessities. You’ll probably do his

goddamn autopsy soon-

BENNET:

That’s what I told him.

WECHT:

I know you did. He told me. Why are

you antagonizing him?

(and looks at him)

You need a girlfriend. You have to

touch someone alive once in a

while. Living women are a pain in

the ass. But occasionally they’re

amazing.

(--)

So maybe just a little less of an

artist? Be yourself, just play the

game a little, okay?

(as he slides across a

thick file--)

BENNET:

(can’t do it--)

I have exams next week.

WECHT:

Death row case. The guy’s being

railroaded. A thousand dollars for

you.

Bennet looks at him.

CHERRY PAGES 1.21.15 9.

BENNET:

How do you become a professional

expert witness?

WECHT:

It’s not a profession, it’s a

hobby. You and I have jobs, right?

So instead of watching baseball -

or playing bridge with my wife - I

do this. Besides, by the time your

balls are hanging as low as mine,

you better be expert in something.

BENNET:

You’re the best, Cyril.

WECHT:

Well, if you don’t piss everyone

off, you’re going to be better.

And Bennet leans into crime scene photos, police and

forensics reports. Young woman ripped and bloodied.

20 INT. BENNET’S OFFICE - COUNTY CORONER - NIGHT

Bennet in his shitbox storage closet re-fitted as an office.

(We clock the high-school quality microscope he’s been given.

The crappy ancient computer. All his framed degrees stacked

on the floor; no room to hang even one)

He roots in his pocket for a small rusty crucifix, sets it on

his desk, and settles in amidst boxes of files. Crime scene

photos. Bearing down into the paper with his machine-like

focus.

Then stops. Closes the file. Gets up, reaching for his coat-

Now, OVER this, in PRE-LAP, we start to HEAR the infinity

thud of contempo-dance, and we cut to-

21 INT. STATIC (DANCE CLUB) - PITTSBURGH, PA - NIGHT

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