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A woman brutally murdered, her hands severed at the wrists, her mouth bound with tape. An arrogant art dealer who showcases new talent if the price is right. An angry artist, obsessed with the obscene. All the ingredients for a juicy story, yet somehow the episode fell flat. Perhaps it's because the murderer had as much personality as Ben Stein on Prozac. Or perhaps it's because there wasn't a twist to be found in the plot. Or perhaps it's simply because the controversial subject matter wasn't really controversial at all.

Lucy Young, a one woman "charity" who used her inheritance to fund rising artists and musicians, is found dead in her apartment, her detached hands laid neatly under the coffee table. The ensuing investigation proceeds smoothly. Not surprisingly for TV Land, the upper middle class witnesses, unlike the economically challenged ones Briscoe and Green are used to dealing with, have good memories. One neighbor recalls a visitor asking for Young shortly before her death; another witness remembers a man lingering across the street and can actually provide a solid description. Detectives Briscoe and Green soon have several leads, including a "Drug Hut" bag that was probably left by the killer while he waited for Young to come home. Young's own Palm Pilot brings the detectives to her college roommate so the detectives can learn of Young's connection to the art world.

Of course, the detectives reasonably conclude, the murder must have something to do with Young's philanthropy. They visit Young's business manager and effortlessly learn of a $100,000 cash payment to a local art dealer. Paul Radford, a self-proclaimed "talent scout," contends he helped Young become a "part of the magic" by putting her in touch with young artists. When Radford refuses to turn over his books, the detectives conclude he's hiding something. They meet with one of Young's beneficiaries and deduce that Radford must have stiffed Young on a deal. They return to Radford's gallery and, while Briscoe grills Radford's assistant about the night of the murder, Detective Green finds "Perfect Woman No. 3," a painting of a woman with her mouth covered and no hands.

The plot unfolds within minutes. Mark Vee, the creator of "Perfect Woman No. 3," was one of Young's artists. During Vee's show, an unidentified man spoke out against the painting and was asked to leave. A reporter thought that the man lived in Brooklyn. The detectives check with a Brooklyn Drug Hut and, using an artist's sketch, identify Larry Brunig as their suspect.

Mr. Brunig, however, denies knowledge of Mr. Vee or his painting and refuses to let the detectives into his home despite Detective Green's crafty approach: "Sorry for accusing you of murder, Sir... Say, do you mind if I use your telephone before we leave?" The detectives then try to connect Brunig to the victim on their own. As it turns out, Vee's girlfriend keeps a scrapbook of all his clippings, including a vicious letter to the editor denouncing Vee and his benefactors.

Just one problem, though: the letter is anonymous and the newspaper does not want to release the name of its author. That's just editorial policy, argues Carmichael, not a legal privilege. You make no promise of confidentiality, Carmichael asserts. Ah, argues the newspaper, but we're talking about the First Amendment and you're starting down a "slippery slope" when you require a newspaper to turn over information like that. The judge, unimpressed by the "slippery slope," balances the competing interests and reasonably requires the newspaper to turn over any letters written by Brunig. Jackpot. Although he did not write the letter the newspaper actually published, Brunig did write an even more threatening letter denouncing Vee and supporters of artists like him.

While the police search Brunig's apartment, Lieutenant Van Buren tries to persuade Brunig to confess by "sharing" his hatred of Vee's paintings. Despite Van Buren's valiant (read: almost embarrassing) efforts, Brunig remains calm and admits nothing. The police are more successful, finding a gun with a handle that matches marks found at the crime scene. Brunig is arrested, but eyewitnesses are not able to identify him.

Unwilling to let this murderer walk, Carmichael begins an investigation of her own. She learns that Brunig himself was once a painter of aesthetically pleasing paintings. She learns that he failed to sell his work and was forced to take a day job. She also learns that he was arrested in Barcelona for attempting to vandalize a painting by Salvador Dali: a painting of a woman with no head, no hands, and no feet.

The prosecutors now have a case for murder. Brunig's lawyer balks at the charge of murder one, but the judge correctly agrees that cutting off the victim's hands constituted willful and wanton behavior. Brunig's lawyer then argues that evidence of the Barcelona arrest is inadmissible character evidence. Again, the judge correctly finds for the prosecution, determining that the arrest is admissible as evidence of motive. While character evidence generally is inadmissible, such evidence may be admitted to prove something other than character, like motive or intent. Recognizing defeat, Brunig claims to be not guilty by reason of "extreme emotional disturbance," or, as Carmichael describes it, Brunig raises "the painting made me do it" defense.

This is where the story breaks down. Brunig went to Young's house with a gun, waited outside the building for over an hour, killed her, and then sliced off her hands. Given these facts, no viewer could believe that a jury might buy into the "bad art" defense.

As a result, the rest of this episode's theatrics, including defense counsel's invocation of "The Rule" to prohibit state psychiatrist Skoda from being present in the courtroom during Brunig's testimony, were far from compelling. The Rule permits any party to exclude all witnesses from the courtroom during testimony and argument. While some courts will allow expert witnesses to remain in the courtroom, it is totally appropriate for the court to exclude them, too.

Even less compelling was Dr. Skoda's claim that a cold reading of Brunig's testimony suggested a loss of control consistent with Brunig's defense, and that he therefore could not testify in support of the State. Not a single viewer could buy Brunig's story, so it is hard to believe that the State's psychiatrist (the same psychiatrist who testified last week that a psychiatrist should be held responsible when his patient commits suicide) was suckered in.

The ensuing debate among Schiff, McCoy and Carmichael about whether they should accept a plea bargain in order to avoid an acquittal that could impinge on the freedom of expression was simply comical. "The book made me angry" just isn't a defense, and we all know it. Consequently, none of us were surprised when the jury found Brunig guilty.

If a television show is going to push the envelope to spark thought on important and controversial issues, then the writers should make sure the issues addressed are important and controversial. The idea that society might allow a man who brutally killed and dismembered a woman to blame his actions on an offensive painting is, itself, offensive. The actors seemed to recognize this, bringing uncharacteristically low levels of emotion to their roles. This-- and, of course, the aforementioned lack of a credible story line--made the episode painful to watch.

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