Television Review: Sniper: Part 2 (Homicide: Life on the Street, S4X09, 1996)

Sniper: Part 2 (S04E09)

Airdate: 12 January 1996

Written by: Edward Gold
Directed by: Darnell Martin

Running Time: 47 minutes

Multi-part episodes in long-running television series often stumble under the weight of their own ambition. The first instalment may spark intrigue, only for subsequent chapters to fumble pacing, characterisation, or narrative coherence. Yet Homicide: Life on the Street’s two-part Sniper arc defies expectations by reversing this dynamic. While Part 1 was a plodding, formulaic exercise in procedural cliché—over-reliant on shock value and undercooked psychological stakes—Part 2 emerges as a taut, thematically rich redemption. It salvages a faltering premise through sharp scripting, layered performances, and a willingness to interrogate the human fallout of violence. The result is an episode that transcends its predecessor’s flaws, even if it never fully escapes the shadow of the series’ own uneven handling of serialised storytelling.

The episode opens not with a fresh crime, but with the visceral aftershocks of Part 1’s climax. Detectives—already hollow-eyed from pursuing William Mariner, the “Hangman”-obsessed sniper—are thrust back into chaos when new shootings erupt mere hours after Mariner’s suicide. This narrative choice brilliantly amplifies the unit’s exhaustion. Andre Braugher’s Frank Pembleton, usually a bastion of cerebral detachment, frets over his pregnant wife’s safety, his anxiety simmering beneath clipped dialogue. Meanwhile, Richard Belzer’s John Munch—a character prone to sardonic deflection—betrays raw vulnerability while urging Melissa Leo’s Kay Howard to avoid field work: “I don’t want to see you shot again.” These moments ground the procedural in emotional realism, showcasing how sustained trauma erodes even the most resilient professionals.

A standout sequence sees the team interview Linda Mariner (Carolyn McCormick), the sniper’s widow, in a scene that epitomises Homicide’s commitment to unflinching social commentary. McCormick delivers a blistering monologue, lambasting the detectives for their failure to save her husband and, by extension, her family’s future. “She Mariner’s victims as not just the dead, but the living—a wife now shackled to infamy, children burdened by a father’s legacy. This confrontation underscores the series’ willingness to explore crime’s ripple effects, refusing to reduce tragedy to tidy “case closed” finality. It’s a rebuke to the glorification of law enforcement, suggesting that even successful investigations leave wreckage in their wake.

When the focus shifts to copycat killer Alex Robey (David Eigenberg), the episode pivots into a scathing critique of true-crime sensationalism. Robey weaponises his encyclopaedic knowledge of Mariner’s media coverage to manipulate investigators. His eager cooperation—citing New York Times and Washington Post headlines—initially reads as civic-mindedness, until the script peels back his obsession. Eigenberg masterfully balances pathetic vulnerability with chilling calculation, portraying Robey as a man intoxicated by the fantasy of outsized notoriety. The interrogation scenes crackle with tension as Frank Pembleton’s trademark aggression proves futile against Robey’s smug evasions.

The episode’s masterstroke lies in its deployment of Megan Russert (Isabella Hoffman), a character long squandered as a bland authority figure. Demoted from captaincy in prior episodes, Russert finally steps into her potential here as she outmanoeuvres Robey through psychological nuance rather than brute force. Hoffman plays the role with restrained brilliance, deploying a mix of maternal empathy and strategic flattery to coax Robey’s confession. Where Pembleton’s confrontational style failed, Russert succeeds by mirroring Robey’s hunger for validation—a testament to the value of emotional intelligence in policing. It’s a revelatory moment for a character previously defined by competence porn clichés (Naval Academy pedigree, rapid promotions), and a damning indictment of the show’s earlier underuse of Hoffman’s talents.

For all its strengths, Sniper: Part 2 is hobbled by director Darnell Martin’s jarring tonal missteps. Her penchant for frenetic jump cuts and chiaroscuro lighting—reminiscent of 1990s MTV aesthetics—clashes with Homicide’s signature vérité grit.

Sniper: Part 2 ultimately succeeds not because it resolves every narrative thread elegantly, but because it embraces the messiness of its premise. By foregrounding the detectives’ burnout, the collateral damage of Mariner’s rampage, and the media’s complicity in perpetuating violence, the episode transcends procedural conventions to ask unsettling questions about justice’s human cost. Russert’s ascendance as a nuanced protagonist and Eigenberg’s haunting portrayal of alienated rage elevate the material, even when Martin’s direction threatens to trivialise it. While the two-parter remains an uneven entry in Homicide’s canon, Part 2 proves that second chances—for both characters and storytellers—can yield riveting results.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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