Basic Instinct

Oh, god. Oh.

- How are you doing, Nick? - Hi.

Morning, detective.

You got to get back, folks.

- Howdy. - Morning.

Up there.

- How's it going, guys? - Morning, Pete.

Who was this fuckin' guy?

Rock and roll, Gus. Johnny boz.

- I never heard of him. - Before your time, cowboy.

- Hey, Ronnie. Where are they hiding? - Upstairs, to the right.

Mid-sixties. He had five or six hits. He's got a club down in the Fillmore now.

Not now he don't.

- Do we have a time of death. - Almost.

- You guys know captain talcott? - Sure.

- What's the chief's office doin" here. - Observing.

What's it say, doc?

Ninety-two degrees. It's about six hours.

Put's time of death around, uh, 2 am plus or minus.

Can somebody close the drapes over there?

- Geez, what a mess. - Maid came in about an hour ago.

Found the body. She's not a live-in.

Maybe the maid did it.

She's 54 years old and weighs 240 pounds.

No bruises on the body.

- It ain't the maid. - Never know.

Sorry.

He left the club with his girlfriend about midnight.

That's the last time anybody saw him.

- What was it? - Ice pick.

Left it on the coffee table in the living room.

There's come stains all over the sheets.

Very impressive.

He got off before he got offed.

Gentlemen, this is sensitive.

Mr. boz was a major contributor to the mayor's campaign.

He was chairman of the board of the palace of fine arts...

I thought you said he was a rock and roll star.

He was a retired rock and roll star.

A civic-minded, very respectable rock and roll star.

What's that over there?

It looks like some civic-minded, very respectable cocaine.

Listen to me, curran. I'm gonna get a lot of heat on this.

I don't want any mistakes.

What's boz's girlfriend's name?

Catherine tramell, 162 divisadero.

Always a pleasure, captain.

He's up bright and early.

He doesn't usually punch in till after his 18 holes.

Johnny and the mayor must have been very tight.

Hey. Yo.

Keep your three o'clock.

Do you want me to work the case, Phil...

- I said keep it. - All right.

I'll keep it.

Morning. I'm detective curran, this is detective moran.

San Francisco police department.

We'd like to speak to a Ms. Catherine tramell, please.

Come in.

Sit, please. Just a moment.

Ain't that cute? They got his and hers Picasso's.

Gus, I didn't even know you knew who Picasso was.

Sure I do. It says right here.

Hers is bigger.

Sorry to bother you.

Just got a couple of questions to ask.

- Are you vice? - No, we're homicide.

What do you want?

When was the last time you saw John boz?

Is he dead?

Why do you think he's dead?

Well, you wouldn't be here otherwise, would you?

Were you with him last night?

You're looking for Catherine, not me.

Who are you?

I'm roxy.

I'm her friend.

She's out at the beach house at Stinson. Seadrift. 1402.

Thanks.

You're wasting your time.

Catherine didn't kill him.

Gus...

Ms. tramell?

Good afternoon. I'm detective curran, this is detective moran.

- We're with the San Francisco police... - I know who you are.

So how did he die?

He was murdered.

Obviously.

- How was he murdered? - With an ice pick.

How long were you dating him?

I wasn't dating him. I was fucking him.

What are you? A pro?

No. I'm an amateur.

How long were you having sex with him?

About a year and a half.

- Were you with him last night? - Yes.

Did you leave the club with him?

- Yes. - Did you go home with him?

No. We had a drink at the club. We left together.

He went home and I came out here.

Was there anyone with you last night?

No. I wasn't in the mood last night.

Let me ask you something, Ms. tramell?

Are you sorry he's dead?

Yeah. I liked fucking him.

Look, I don't really feel like talking anymore.

Listen, lady, we can do this downtown if you want.

So read me my rights and arrest me, and then I'll go downtown.

Otherwise, get the fuck out of here.

Please?

Nice girl.

I'm sorry, Beth. I got hung up in Stinson.

How are you, Nick?

I'm fine.

Oh, come on, Beth. You know I'm fine.

How long we gotta keep doing this?

As long as internal affairs wants you to, I suppose. Have a seat.

It's bullshit, okay. You know it is.

I know it is, but sit down anyway so we can get it over with, okay?

So, how are things?

Things are fine. I told you, all right. Things are fine.

How is your personal life?

My sex life is fine.

My sex life is actually pretty shitty since I stopped seeing you.

Started developing calluses.

Sorry.

How's the booze?

Haven't had a drink in three months.

- What about the coke? - No.

No?

No. No, I'm working my ass off, I'm off the sauce.

I even stopped smoking.

How's not smoking?

It sucks.

Now, will you tell ia I'm just your average healthy, totally fucked up cop,

and let me outta here?

Please?

Yes.

Thank you.

I still miss you, Nick.

- Hey, how you doing, Nick? - Hi.

Talcott's in there. They're waiting. How'd it go?

She misses me.

Boy, when that girl mates, it's for life.

All right. Let's start. Harrigan.

Well, we got 31 stab wounds, neck and the chest.

No usable prints, no forcible entry, nothing missing.

No prints on the ice pick either. You can pick it up at any K-Mart.

The scarf was hermes. It's expensive.

They sell about 20,000 a year, worldwide.

The powder was cocaine, high-quality, high-content.

He inhaled it; There were minute quantities on his lips and penis.

Mr. boz leaves five million dollars, no direct survivors,

no criminal record.

Liked his drugs, he liked his girls,

- he liked his rock and roll. - He liked the mayor, too, right?

What about his girlfriend?

Is she relevant here? Is she a suspect?

- She's a suspect. - On what basis?

Girlfriend: Catherine tramell. Age 30. No priors, no convictions.

Magnum cum laude at Berkeley, 1983.

Double major. Literature and psychology.

Daughter, sole survivor, Marvin and Elaine tramell,

killed in a boating accident, 1978, Catherine tramell sole heir.

Estimated assets $110 million.

You're shitting me.

Formerly engaged to manual vasquez, deceased...

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Manny vasquez?

Manny vasquez, former middleweight contender,

killed in the ring Atlantic city, 1984.

I love it. She's got a hundred million bucks.

She fucks fighters and rock and roll stars.

And she's got a degree in screwing with peoples' heads.

You forgot about her degree in literature. She's a writer.

She published a novel last year under a pen name.

Wanna know what it's about?

It's about a retired rock and roll star who gets murdered by his girlfriend.

Page 67, cowboy.

You know how she does the boyfriend?

With an icepick...

In bed...

His hands tied with a white silk scarf.

Dr. garner?

I've asked Dr. lamott to consult with us. This isn't really my turf.

Dr. lamott teaches the pathology of psychopathic behavior at Stanford

and is also a member

of the justice department's psychological profile team.

Dr. lamott?

I see two possibilities.

One. The person who wrote this book is your murderer

and acted out the killing described in ritualistic, literal detail.

Two. Someone who wants to harm the writer

read the book and enacted the killing described to incriminate her.

What if the writer did it? Then what are we dealing with?

You're dealing with a devious, diabolical mind.

You see, this book had to have been written at least six months,

maybe even years, before it was published.

Which means that the writer had to have at least planned the crime,

in the subconscious, back then.

Now, the fact that she carried it out