Extremely fuckable, Harry. Gorgeous. A gorgeous bourgeois woman. Waifish. Like a *welkin* basically.

Fucking Harry... Fuck you for bringing this kid with you. It's *only* because he's defending you -- it's the *only* reason you're not staying here to die. (ESPRIT DE CORPS - It's more than that. He just can't. One final time...)

He's here to see if you're insane. He's smart. Let's move on.

I can believe that. Shitkid made it all up to fuck with us -- because he's a psychopath. This is typical Harry behaviour. A sick joke. I told you, Jude.

Yes. You're *sorry*. You're the sorriest cop who ever lived. Nothing has changed, Harry. I've heard this *repentance* shit a million times over.

Perfect, great, I don't give a shit! (He shakes his head.) Now leave us alone and do your thing... and I don't mean get drunk and piss yourself, right? You realize that, don't you?

I like wearing sunglasses inside. Sunglasses -- and a *fucking wig*.

Stupid is a gross understatement.

Are you drunk right now? You're drunk right now, aren't you, you fucking *bum*. I can smell it!

He's probably just an *asshole*. A drunk asshole who *pretends* to have amnesia to get out of shit.

I'm not busy, you're not busy, let's just play around!

No, Harry... it's *not* your name, (the man scoffs.) Your name is Baron Von Kikkenberg -- cool guy.

A cover-up -- where the author of the cover-up is the perp? Makes sense. (‟I know, right? But what's the motive?”) You don't have a motive? Then the double cover-up seems too neat.

You look like a fucking clown, Harry. *Not* like a funny police officer, but like a real-life, full-time, pie-in-the-face, unicycle-riding circus employee.

Not as famous as you, superstar. (He says without the slightest hint of irony.)

Horrible, truly horrible, (he continues.) I beg of you, don't ever subject anyone to this torture again. I mean seriously, you need to...

(‟Contact Mike is a reprise of the most inspiring basic sporting principle of open competition! A 5,000-1 rank outsider!”) Oh -- you don't say? (He arches an eyebrow.) Does he also *vault an impassible gulf of finance and privilege*?

(The man doesn't reply. He's too busy furiously squinting at you.)

A straggler -- from the Revolution? (He sounds incredulous.)

Enough! (The commotion dies down. All eyes turn to Satellite-Officer Vicquemare.) None of this is funny! It's fucking sad, that's what it is. He's a cop. He's one of us, goddamn this...

This shit does *not* leave this room! Not a word of this to the captain or anyone else. We'll give him a couple of days to pull his shit together!

My point is, you need to see a *psychiatrist* about this shit. Not a psychologist -- several degrees harder. Is there's something harder than a psychiatrist? (He pauses to think.) A forensic psychiatrist. Go talk to that.

Thank you, lieutenant. You're being kind. It *is* an understaffed station and the district *is* too big -- which is why we need to... (He tilts his head northward...)

Not as famous as you, superstar. (He says without the slightest hint of irony.)

Guilty as charged. (He exchanges a look with the special consultant.) I heard you'd lost your mind *and* your memory. I wanted to see if it was true. And it was. Good work, Harry. You're insane now. There's one less person for me -- and everyone else -- to rely on.

Even the insect -- I don't care. But you're an *alcoholic*. And you've been drinking -- again. I won't let my life unravel because of this.

But you're not trying your best, are you? (He says with a flash of anger.)

Yes. You're *sorry*. You're the sorriest cop who ever lived. Nothing has changed, Harry. I've heard this *repentance* shit a million times over.

That's great! *Entroponaut* is a great new career for you -- *after* police officer. I don't care. Go live in the fucking pale.

(‟Like a man down on his luck? I'm trying real hard here, man.”) Oh... (He seems taken aback for a moment.) Well, go solve your case then. That would count as *trying hard*.

This sounds hysterical, Harry. What did you *do* on that island? What happened to you? (EMPATHY - He's genuinely concerned now.)

(“Khm... I *also* started a night club. In the church.”) What? (He cups his ear -- the wind blows.) It sounded like you set up a drug lab!

Yeah? How do you fucking plan to do that, huh?! Get him off the drink?! Go jogging with him in the morning and get him on carrot juice?! He's a lost man!

Or perhaps it can be cured with mesmerism? But then I think: No, that's unlikely. He's probably just an *asshole*. A drunk asshole who *pretends* to have amnesia to get out of shit.

The tie's talking again -- that's it. No more phasmid-talk. There's no PR-value in delirium tremens.

Harry... you're bleeding all over the place. You're half dead.

That's right -- 'worried'. I'm always worried about you.

*If* you make it -- if you've been sober for 10 months -- tell us. I'll work with you again. But not like this. Never like this again. This is over.

Why yes... (His eyes peer over the sunglasses.) Yes, I am a male nurse -- how could you tell?

Harry, you're a cop with 'Pissf****ts' on his back! Do you have any idea how hard the liberals are going to fuck us for this?

Yes. From another life. A different life. Maybe the life of a police officer belonging to the ranks of the... (He pauses.)

My point is, you need to see a *psychiatrist* about this shit. Not a psychologist -- several degrees harder. Is there's something harder than a psychiatrist? (He pauses to think.) A forensic psychiatrist. Go talk to that.

You turned a church into a night club -- the *kids* are probably shooting up in there... What else did you do? Desecrate the altar? Shit in the chancel?

(‟Cool shades. Are you wearing a disguise?”) Yes. It's a hobby of mine. (He looks at you inquisitively.)

Funny apery. (Vicquemare struggles with his umbrella, the ribs are protruding from its canopy.) Male-centric workplace humour. Have you seen him?

I'm going to say... *no*. Just to see what you'll say to that. What do you say?

Goddamnit, you leave her alone! (The man with sunglasses snaps at you.)

Okay, superstar. Talk to me, what do you want? You want a pat on the back?

You didn't *recognize* me -- your own partner. Walked right past me...

He doesn't have it... (He points to the sea.) Here's an idea. Maybe you could look in the mother fucking motor carriage you drove into the sea? Maybe LOOK THERE?!