Suspect Zero Page #3

He looks down, registers the image... and SHRIEKS.

O'RYAN (O.S.)

There's a rest stop, next off-ramp. Pull

into it.

SPECK:

I have some money. It's not a lot but--

O'RYAN

Nobody wants your money, Harold. Just

pull in.

SPECK:

Why?!

O'Ryan rises into frame now, like Nosferatu...

O'RYAN

Because I don't wanna do this at 70 miles

an hour. It could be dangerous.

Speck finds the off-ramp. His breaths are shallow now.

SPECK:

Please, Mister - what do you want from

me?

O'Ryan's face:
a knowing grin fans across it...

CUT TO:

...the face of VIRGIL RAY STARKEY, on a bulletin board.

5 INT. F.B.I. RESIDENT AGENCY - WICHITA FALLS - MORNING (SAME 5

DAY)

We're looking at the F.B.I.'s "Ten Most-Wanted List." Starkey

is #7 on it. He's 40, white. His crime are listed as rape,

murder, kidnapping.

THOMAS MACKELWAY stares at Starkey's image. At the eyes...

Mackelway is 34, bred for success - bred for stardom in fact,

a whiz at everything he's ever attempted.

So what the hell is he doing in Wichita Falls, Texas...?

EIGHT AGENTS, in cubicles, with a ring of outer offices. Quiet

phones, lousy take-out options, hardly a dream gig.

CHARLTON (O.S.)

Got a spot set up for you, Tom.

That's RICK CHARLTON: late 40's, thinning hair, friendly.

Charlton heads around a corner. Mackelway follows.

CHARLTON (CONT'D)

Ms. Potter's the nice girl you met at the

desk. She puts a package together for all

the new agents, things to know about the

area, help with finding apartments and

such. This one's yours:

Charlton stops at a CUBICLE: Carpeted walls, formica desk. A

corner of dull Hell. Mackelway eyes it, fighting dread.

CHARLTON (CONT'D)

Not so different from Dallas, is it?

MACKELWAY:

(f*** yes)

No, Sir.

CHARLTON:

Good.

An abandoned SPORTS PAGE tells us about that World Series, so

we must be mid-October. Charlton heads out. Mackelway throws a

briefcase on to the desk, setting up his world:

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