A remote one way country lane splitting towering pines on the frontier lands of Montana. A black CID car cruises along these elevated hills. SUPER: 'Havre, Montana - 1995'
Griffey (V.O) It was foolish of me to think, having worked homicide for two decades, that I had seen evil in all of its glory.
DICK GRIFFEY, mid 40s, bald and broad and hard worn sits in the passenger and presses firmly against his rumpled suit trying to smooth it out. At the wheel is WINSTON WALLACE, 50s, nice set of hair streaked with a bit of steel gray, looks over to Griffey and raises a thick brow.
Griffey (V.O) Mass murderers. Hedonistic killers. Butchers, stalkers, stranglers, you name it. But this time - this time we had interfered with the devil himself. And six months from now I'll be dead. But, if I'm being completely honest, I wouldn't change a thing if I could.
Griffey, unrelenting, still having at his rumpled suit.
Wallace You ever heard of an iron?
Griffey I’m not trying to get rid of them. Just trying to get the right ratio of wrinkle.
...
Wallace You want your suit wrinkled?
Griffey Yeah. Builds character.
Wallace grimaces and glances at Griffey.
Wallace It's unprofessional.
Griffey You mind stopping for a second? I gotta take a leak.
Wallace pulls over to the side of the road and Griffey exits and heads into the tree-line. Griffey whistles his way down a small trail and stops beside a bush. He looks around as he handles his affair - the forest a quiet and ominous stretch, growing darker the deeper you go.
Griffey sees something in his peripheral deep in the forest and he turns - an object big and yellow hiding behind thick pine and bush. He zips his fly and inches closer towards it. He's anxious, the hairs on his neck begin to prickle as he moves along the trail and, in complete disbelief, he halts at the sight of..
unsolicited 