We weren't six blocks from here when
it come over the radio.
Bernzy is lining up another shot; he speaks from behind both
cigar and camera.
I killed him. To get the pictures.
The Young Cop has entered. Bernzy waves him back.
You're casting a shadow.
He backs up, obligingly. Bernzy takes his shot.
The Young Cop kneels by the corpse. He finds a gun in the
waist-band of its suit trousers.
Second one this week.
Who'd this guy work for, Bernzy?
But Bernzy hears a car pulling up outside, a car door
slamming. He peers down into the street through the window.
Another Photographer is arriving. He crosses the street,
lugging a press camera.
I think Farinelli. But he's not
lookin' his best tonight... Could
you move his hat closer?
His hat. The hat. People like to see
a dead guy's hat.
O'Brien grudgingly picks up the hat, drops it closer to the
The flashbulb fires.
EXT. ALLEY - NIGHT
Bernzy, in the alley alongside the building, is hunched over
the open trunk of his sedan on a camp stool.
The car trunk has been turned into a darkroom. The truck
lamp has been replaced with a darkroom bulb. A drying line
is suspended over a shallow tub. (Also in the trunk are two
dozen boxes of Wabash super-flash photo lamps, an open box
of cigars, a pot of glue, various cameras and lenses, and a
tiny, battered typewriter.)
Bernzy looks up into the apartment window as the explosion
of a flashbulb-fills the window.
Bernzy unpins four nearly dry photos on the line, fans them
in the air, lays them face down on the trunk floor, and stamps
their backs with his identifying imprint: