Out of old habit he still snaps his fingers at you -- but then stops immediately…

Out of old habit he still snaps his fingers at you -- but then stops immediately, realizing what he's done. He does not want to talk to you.

Today, tomorrow, ever.

"Stuck in the rain in a traffic jam, man. What's on your mind?"

"I've changed my mind about your friend the lady driver..."

"What?" He looks up. "But I told you she's my friend! Please don't make me give her up, detective. Get someone else. There's a ton of drivers here..."

"So you're alright with others ratting her out. You just don't want your hands dirty?"

"Fine. I don't want to be a butcher. And I don't want to be a knight either. I just wanna be a person who can sleep at night. A little fame wouldn't hurt too."

"She's a suspect and I need you to tell me where she is. Or I can't finish the investigation." (Force Tommy.)

"I... I thought you were a different kind of cop." Something breaks in him as he stares into your eyes.

The realization that you've used his friendliness and good will for your own ends.

Remember, you're doing it for the bigger investigation -- this is important. Relax. Ask.

"Where is the lady driver?"

"Here." He takes a keyring from his pocket -- then looks at it before giving it to you. In silence...

The keys to a motor lorry. Pretty complex. Looks like a chain lock.

Then he gives them to you. "Her lorry is still here. Down, past the statue of Filippe," he waves toward the monument. "The cabin is green. You can get in there with these. That's all I know."

"When did she leave?"

"Last Friday." He blinks, his eyes half-empty now.

"Anything else? Like where she is now?"

"No. I don't know."

"One more thing. About something else."

"Nah. I need to think my own thoughts now. Pray forgiveness for my sins. Go check your cabin..." He adds quietly: "I hope it gets you something. Helps someone."

"I'm sorry I had to do this."

"I bet you are."

And he's sorry he couldn't be what he wants to be -- a good person. His last line, his revenge on the world.

"Thank you. I'll go to the cabin then." [Leave.]

"Let's go Kim." [Leave.]

He turns to the man before you leave. "Thank you for your cooperation, sir. I know it was hard. But you did the right thing."

"You don't really think so."

"I really do. If I didn't, I wouldn't be in the RCM. Take care, sir."

"When did she leave?"

"Last Friday." He blinks, his eyes half-empty now.

"And why did you have the keys?"

"She left them to me. Because she trusted me... So I can get it out of the way when the jam breaks loose. Otherwise..." He doesn't finish the sentence.

"The other drivers would have to tow it, or break in, to get the machines moving." He nods.

If they break in they would find what's hidden inside? Something incriminating?

The other drivers would have to break in there -- to get the machines moving. And they would find what's hidden inside? Something incriminating?

"Fine, I will drop the matter for now." (Find another way.)

"Thank you, friend." He sighs. It's a big sigh of relief. "Wow, this makes me feel like I should pick up smoking again... Would help with my rhymes too."

"Put yourself in my shoes. I need this for another investigation too -- it's important, I can't blow it."

"You're not gonna put a bullet in your head if you blow it, are you? 'Cause she's on the edge, man."

I wouldn't be so sure, Tommy.

Imagine it. An explosion. Of stars. Good bye world of men, money and machines...

"Fine, I will drop the matter again." (Find another option)

"Whooh. Almost gave me a heart attack..." He sighs with relief. "Yeah, I really need to start smoking again."

He's a poet. Hit him with your best verse.

Wait, there's something here. Stored away in some dusty corner. It starts like...

"A mirror’s temperature is always zero. It is ice in the veins. Its camera is an x-ray."

"Whoa." He leans in, his eyes bright with attention. "What else?"

"It is a chalice held out to you in silent communion."

"Silent communion, that's good..." He's transfixed by the words.

"Where gaspingly you partake of a shifting identity never your own."

"Dang," he grunts, unable to suppress his reaction. "That's some great shit. You came up with that yourself?"

Did you?

Or did you learn it in school? More importantly: who can prove if you did? Go with it -- you deserve some acclaim.

"I'm just a vessel for the muse."

"Right. But really -- no bullshit. That's great stuff. I sorta wanna know if it's yours..."

"I think that may be an actual poet. And I've learned it by heart."

"No matter, it's a fine stanza. You're not so bad after all, for a cop."

"For a cop?"

"They're more often into fists than rhymes, see. Let alone honesty in verse."