Fargo

- -

You want some pop? Sprite or something?

No.

This is Deputy Gloria Burgle,

Meeker County Sheriff's office,

with an interview of Emmit Stussy,

March 16, 2011.

First up, I'm curious about something.

Your house is an hour's drive from here.

There's three St. Cloud metros near your office.

Why come all the way down here?

You gave me your card.

Okay, then.

Well, I got a lot of questions,

but I guess, maybe, you should just start.

I want to be clear about something.

If anybody comes here, claiming to be my lawyer,

don't let them in.

-Like who? -Anybody.

I'm saying, I'm here on my own proxy.

Want no contact with the outside world.

Don't trust anyone who comes,

if they do, which they may not.

He was right, you know?

-Who? -Ray.

I tricked him.

Or not tricked, but...

A lie is not a lie if you believe it's true,

do you think that?

It's not my story.

I think that.

Or I did, I guess.

I don't know what I believe now.

He played tennis.

Ray?

Our dad.

At his club, rain or shine, every Saturday.

He had that thing all dads have

after 30 years of wearing socks,

where the hair gets worn away,

so he's basically bald from the shins down.

I was on the drive, you know, throwing

a ball against the house, a tennis ball.

Wasn't supposed to, but he was gone, so...

And Ray's someplace, kitchen probably,

he was always eating, that kid.

Real chubby.

And then, Dad's home.

He had this old Mercedes diesel,

you could hear it on the come.

So I hide the ball and he pulls in.

Not out of the car ten seconds,

when down he goes, flat on his face.

One minute, he's waving hello, the next, just drops like...

Like the lights go out.

I killed him.

-Your dad? -Ray.

First I tricked him,

then I killed him.

Like no days had passed.

Like one thing goes and then another.

Like you whack a tennis ball back and forth.

Killed him where?

In the den of a shithole apartment.

Framed picture-puzzle in the wall,

like some six-year-old,

so proud, he had to hang it up.

Christmas Eve.

You think there's a special level of hell

for people that killed their loved ones on Christmas Eve?

I wanted the stamps, see?

My dad gave me a car, but I wanted the stamps.

What 17-year-old boy wants stamps

when he can have a cherry-red Corvette?

But I did.

And Ray, like I said, he was a chubby kid.

15 years old, never been laid,

never even felt up a girl, so...

I let it slip.

How this car, well... It's like a magnet, isn't it?

Like catnip for kitty cats,

and if you turn up to school Monday

in this thing, well, it's a done deal.

And now, he's begging me.

"Emmit, please, take the damn stamps, give me the car."

Like it's his idea.

What's that old quote, that...

"The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled

"was convincing the world he didn't exist."

How did you?

I cut his throat.

Blood everywhere.

"Exsanguinate," that's the term,

the cause of death.

But how, exactly?

One stamp left.

I sold the rest and used the capital

to get things rolling,

but I kept the two-cent,

hung it on the wall of my study.

Like it was my first dollar I ever made.

But think of it from his point of view,

my brother.

Like a stick in the eye, every time he...

'Cause I won, see?

I won.

And he spent his days watching scumbags piss on his shoes.

So, I go to him and, "Enough's enough," I said.

"This dumb feud, let's put it in the past."

And I give him the frame,

but he's still mad and he tries to give it back,

so we start shoving and the frame breaks.

And a piece of glass, stuck in his neck.

You hit him with it?

No, I didn't... I...

I didn't mean to...

It was just one of those, "What are the odds?" moments.

Murder though, I'm not saying it wasn't.

Hmm.

Thirty years I've been killing him.

That was just when he fell.

I'm not sure one's gonna do it.

I got another picked out, closer to the precinct.

What matters is he signs those papers.

And we get him out of that precinct

before he gets too chatty.

I can monitor the radios,

see if there's a workaround to the new security.

No, let's move shop, go to stage four. No mistakes.

Shit!

Hello.

Hope you got you r checkbook handy.

Who's this?

You first .

Madam, it's just lazy to steal from someone

without knowing their name.

Yeah. That's what I am. Lazy.

Oh.. .

The Swango. Our recidivist.

Bingo.

Mr. Cayman Islands XXJJ19462SK.

Or should I say Switzerland ZZ91482S?

No, account numbers mean nothing

without their passwords,

without the answer to six security questions.

Was it six? Thanks. Thought it was five.

What do you want?

Your name, for starters.

V.M. Varga.

What's the "V.M." stand for?

How much and where?

Not sure that tracks alphabetically.

Look, if you're gonna be clever,

I'm gonna go for a nice lie down.

Two million. Lobby of the Clarion Hotel, 4:00 p.m.

Come alone.

Nice sweater.

It's a cardigan.

Lopez.

Yeah.

-Hello? -Yeah.

...hear me?

Hello?

Yeah, it's me. It's Gloria.

Oh, hey, there. I was just thinking of you.

Yeah? Hey, let me ask you something.

Yeah, strangest thing, I'm here on a case.

A new case, just this morning, a homicide,

and you'll never guess the vic's name.

When you talked to

this Goldfarb lady at the restaurant,

she gave you a full alibi for Emmit.

Yeah, that's it. Spoke for 20 minutes at least.

Nice lady, real sophisticated.

Said they'd been there since 6:15 approx,

maybe even 5:55.

Her and Mr. Feltz and Mr. Stussy,

which, like I said, you'll never guess what.

Well, thing is, he just confessed.

-Who? -Emmit.

Just walked in off the street, told me the whole story,

even named the murder weapon. So I'm wondering,

how come this lady alibis him when he says he's guilty?

It's a puzzler.

Maybe bring her back in and ask her yourself.

Yeah, sounds right.

Wait, you were saying something before

about a new homicide?