After “Stray Bullets”, I became obsessed with David Lapham. It was a dark, deep obsession, the kind that takes you down rain-swept alleys in search of that crazy broad you always turn to, a dame who’s never held a good intention, but can hold a gun like it ain’t nobody’s business, and she doesn’t mind using it on your sorry carcass. Nothing good comes of your obsession, but you weren’t looking for a good thing anyway. You were looking for trouble, the way you’ve always liked it.
Or something like that.
“Murder Me Dead” is Lapham’s noir miniseries, black-and-white like the good Lord intended noir to be. Steven Russell finds his quasi-ex-wife hanging from one of those ceiling fans that exist solely to throw the right shadows on the wrong rooms. He’s the benefactor in the apparent suicide’s will, but the wife’s family has suspicions, and the bereaved Steven takes refuge from the insanity in the quest for a long lost high school crush. From there on out, things unfold with the kind of surprising inevitability made famous by James M. Cain. Loved it, works great as an extended “Stray Bullets” outtake.