EXT. CARIBBEAN ISLAND BEACH - DAY
We trail a smartly-dressed woman as as she approaches a man kneeling before the ocean, his back to the camera. Wind plays at the uncombed mop of salt-and-pepper hair upon his head and flaps his unbuttoned Hawaiian t-shirt about.
Brett Brady thought he was out of the game for good. As he's about to find out, when you're the best there is, you can never truly retire...
(without looking up)
I knew you'd come sooner or later, agent... Peterson?
How did you know my name?
Let's just say...
Cut to a front view of BRADY, a bemused grin on his sun-weathered and unshaven face. His hands are wrapped around the head of a seagull. BRADY's fingers gently push the bird's plumage aside and scan the features of its cranium. He looks up from the bird and takes in the ocean view with a sigh, knowing full well that he's about to be pulled away from paradise.
... a little birdie told me.
INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - NIGHT
PETERSON slams her fist on a desk, causing every agent within earshot to look up. A few people pop their heads up over cubicle walls as a sight gag. It's funny because they look like groundhogs AND because they should be working instead of snooping.
This investigation needs your help!
(leaning back in PETERSON's chair, eating an apple)
What, the FBI can't catch a two-bit crook by themselves? Things really went downhill in the five years since I left. Maybe you should ask one of these newfangled "computer" things for help.
This isn't your everyday criminal. He's a phrenologist, like you.
BRADY arches an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
Some say he's better than you ever were, that I'm wasting my time. But you know what I think? I think you're the only chance we have.
INT. GENTECH RESEARCH LABORATORY - NIGHT
BRADY and PETERSON stand over the body of a scientist, his head blown apart by a gunshot wound.
(feeling the victim's head, closing his eyes as he concentrates)
This man was shot.
Damn it! This is the work of our man, alright. This guy's good.
CLOSE-UP of BRADY's concerned face.
Who is this guy?
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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