The Killing

Nadine?

Did the monster go away?

Kyle.

What are you doing here?

I couldn't sleep, so I took a walk.

And I heard the music and...

What's wrong?

- I saw her. - Who?

My little sister.

Here, sit.

Take a deep breath.

Now another one.

It was a dream. It was a bad one.

It didn't make any sense.

There was an aiguillette on the door and then Nadine came in.

She was just standing there, and she'd been shot.

- There was so much blood. - Listen, it was a nightmare.

I just can't stop thinking about it.

I was in the room with her. I mean, I must have seen it happen.

God, why didn't I protect her? Why didn't I do something?

Listen, Kyle, Kyle, maybe you did protect her.

Listen to me. Listen. Here. Listen.

Listen, nobody really knows what happened that night.

And thinking about it is just gonna make you crazy.

It's coming back to me.

And I don't want it to. I don't want to remember.

Well, you know, memories may come back. They may haunt you.

But you just have to find a way to live with them.

I don't know if I can.

Well, it's like, um... It's like combat.

You make split-second decisions,

and then you second-guess yourself more than anybody else does.

But there is just no going back.

Is that what happened to you?

I mean, is that why you're here?

You know, Kyle, you don't have to say everything that pops into your head.

I'm sorry.

It was war.

And there is nothing in the human experience that can compare to it.

But you can't have regrets. You have to move on.

Or die.

I know that song you were dancing to earlier.

We had to dance to it at cotillion.

You know how to dance?

Just the box step.

If you can box step, you can waltz.

No, I can't. I'm not very good.

Neither am I.

Start with this foot. Okay, it comes this way.

And that moves back.

Right.

Lincoln's arrest records says the gun he brought to school

was a silver-plated Glock.

Same weapon used on the Stansburys.

You got cigarettes?

I quit. I told you.

You get any sleep last night? Because you look like shit.

Whatever.

And you stink too.

What were you doing?

Don't worry about it, all right? I had a few beers.

Yeah?

Yeah.

So you're good, then?

Yeah, I'll be good if you get off my fucking back about it.

Look, I'm okay, all right? Just give it a rest.

There he is.

What up, Lincoln?

Well, if it isn't 21 Jump Street.

I'm not supposed to talk to you, po-po.

I didn't think you were the order-taking type, Private Fuckface.

I'm not.

Holding back on me, son.

You didn't tell me about you and Mrs. S.

What about her?

She was my tennis coach.

Is that what you call it?

You play tennis, ma'am? Ah.

Probably not.

I mean, what do you make being a cop, 50, 60 a year?

What's your point?

Tennis skirts.

Why wear something that barely covers your snatch

unless you're looking to get staked?

Was Mrs. Stansbury your first?

He doesn't have to answer that. It's all over his face.

Hey, man, you don't know shit.

We know she was a 50-year-old woman who took advantage of a kid.

Maybe it was a big deal to you, not to her. Maybe that hurt.

Maybe you just didn't measure up, if you know what I'm saying.

Maybe she was laughing at your virgin ass because you were too quick on the draw.

That bitch didn't laugh at me.

She knew what she was doing.

When she'd strut into that locker room

and bend over in that little fucking skirt of hers...

They can smell it.

Like a sixth sense, you know?

Knowing that you're gonna look.

Because you gotta look, right?

And that's when they get you.

But not if you get them first.

Hey, where's the gun?

What gun?

The silver Glock you brought to school.

All right, 40-watt. I got more than one.

Go check my bedroom at home if you want.

Tell my mom "What's up," while you're at it.

What you gonna do with all those guns, Lincoln?

Well, I hunt.

You know, one time I killed this possum.

Blew its head clean off, right?

Tongue, teeth, all sorts of stringy, bloody gunk sprayed everywhere.

And, man, it was fucking dope.

You know what happens when you go to prison?

When a con and his crew gang-rapes a motherfucker like you,

all sorts of stringy, bloody gunk comes out of your fucking ass.

Holder.

Forty-watt.

Punk-ass motherfucker.

The fuck is your fucking problem, fucking prick?

Yo, Detective.

What the hell do you want?

Here to get me my scrilla for some jib jab.

I need a powwow in private.

You need to learn the English language, fuckhead.

It's about a murder.

Yeah? What murder?

Something to do with a car, I don't know.

But the guy confessed.

Come here, we gotta talk on the DL. I don't want no one hearing.

You don't know shit about any murder, you lying bastard. Go hit the pipe.

Was a cop who did it.

A detective.

- Kyle, come on, I need you. - What for?

Let's go. Now.

Ten-hut!

- Fish. - Yes, sir!

What you are about to embark on is a proud tradition

that occurs each year for all new cadets

called "Slaphappy Sing-Along Day."

Have you been briefed about how this works?

Yes, sir!

Excellent.

Then all we need is a nursery rhyme.

Cadet Stansbury, the honor is yours.

I thought Colonel Rayne said no more hazing.

Fuck her.

Now, I need a rhyme, cadet.

Um, "The Itsy-Bitsy Spider."

The tiny one!

Tremendous choice.

Fish to my right, you get first crack.

One step forward.

A-flight, commence.

Sir, can I go, sir? I have a paper to write.

Permission denied, cadet.

We need to toughen up these boys, fortify them against the enemy.

Think of it as POW training camp.

We're not at war, AJ. We're not even real soldiers.

We're just rich kids in a boarding school.

I can see we need to get you back on track.

Fish, halt.

It's your lucky day, Fish.

You're in for a treat.

Private Stansbury and myself are gonna demonstrate

how this ritual is really done.

Hit me, cadet.

- Hit me. - No.

You're defying chain of command. Now, do it, hit me.

No.

- Knopf. - Yes, sir.

Pair off with Stansbury.

Commence.

It's your turn, cadet.

No.

I can't let you hit him, Cadet Stansbury, unless you sing.

That's enough.

Hit me, cadet.

Dismissed.

What the fuck? You let your kid hang this shit on his walls?

Lincoln's therapist said it's a phase. We need to let it play out.

Play out? It's not like he's drawing pubic hair on some Victoria's Secret model.

How's hacking the faces off centerfolds letting him play it out?

Mrs. Knopf, do you think this has to do with what happened to your son

- with his tennis coach? - This? No.

He's done this stuff for years. He thinks it's funny.

And frankly, I think the school overreacted to all this nonsense.

Really. How so?

My son's had troubles, plenty of them.

But not this kind.

And even if it were true about Lincoln and Linda Stansbury,

Lincoln's certainly old enough. He's not a child.

Your kid's a piece of shit, no doubt, but he was 16 years old.

My son is not a piece of shit, Detective.

And I'll say it again, the school overreacted.

Did the school overreact when they found that gun in Lincoln's backpack?

Of course not. He shouldn't have done that.

It was a stupid, ill-conceived stunt.

It's not as though he shot anyone.