- You think he killed anybody, you're crazy.
- Why?

- He's not the type.
- Everybody's the type.

- He couldn't kill anybody.
- Could you?

- I have.
- Where?

Where you get medals for it.
I see.
And this Mitchell boy
couldn't do that either?

Tell me about this afternoon
when he left.

- Nothing to tell. He left.
- What did you talk to Mrs. Mitchell about?

According to the hotel, you called Chicago
this afternoon at 2:30...

...and talked to a Mrs. Mitchell.
His mother?

His wife.
- Well?
- It was personal. It wouldn't interest you.

Nothing interests me anymore.
Used to, but not anymore.
I've been at this job too long.
I go about it the only way I know how.
I collect all the facts possible.
Most of them are useless.

What did you call Mrs. Mitchell about?
She called me first. Last week. She was
worried about him. He hadn't written.

- Why?
- I don't know.

- Well, then guess.
- He's homesick. He's wife-sick.

Maybe something in her letters made him
suspicious of her love life. I don't know.

Anyway, he's got snakes. He's been nuts.
- But not nuts enough to kill somebody.
- How was he this afternoon?

He was trying to act like a soldier.
I think he went out to look for a girl.

What's your name, anyway?
Look, Finlay, this sort of life
doesn't bother some soldiers.

Doesn't bother me much.
I haven't seen my wife for two years.

When I do, maybe we'll pick up again.
Maybe we won't.

But I don't worry about it now.
Mitchell isn't like that.
Mitchell isn't tough.

He needs his wife.
I called her and told her what I thought:
She ought to hop a plane and come
down here and cheer him up.