Television Review: I've Got a Secret (Homicide: Life on the Street, S4X11, 1996)

The Hat (S04E11)

Airdate: 2 February 1996

Written by: D. Maria Gilespi
Directed by: Gwen Arner

Running Time: 47 minutes

Homicide: Life on the Street, despite being celebrated as one of the most critically acclaimed police dramas of 1990s US television, never achieved the cultural ubiquity of its contemporaries like Law & Order or NYPD Blue. Its unflinching realism, refusal to simplify moral ambiguity, and resistance to procedural neatness may have made it a critical darling but also a niche curiosity. The Season 4 episode I’ve Got a Secret epitomises this paradox. While showcasing the series’ strengths in gritty authenticity and ensemble storytelling, its disjointed narrative and uneven subplots underscore why Homicide’s legacy remains underappreciated. The title itself—referencing two tangential storylines—hints at a lack of cohesion, as if the episode is straining to reconcile its ambitions with its own limitations.

The episode’s title is a misnomer, as the two minor storylines it references barely intersect with the central plot. The first involves Detective Munch discovering that Howard has a secret lover. Munch’s voyeuristic obsession—tracking Howard’s movements and pestering him with invasive questions—soon devolves into a tiresome spectacle of his eccentricities. Howard’s eventual rebuke is a necessary but abrupt corrective, leaving the subplot feeling like perfunctory filler. Its sole purpose seems to be exploiting Munch’s quirks without contributing to character growth or thematic depth.

The second subplot follows Detectives Lewis and Kellerman apprehending a large but intellectually disabled man accused of murdering his parents. This prompts Lewis to confess to Kellerman that he has a similarly disabled brother institutionalised for decades, whom he has ignored. Lewis’s belated attempt to reconcile with his brother ends in rejection—a poignant moment that could have explored themes of familial neglect and systemic failures. Instead, the scene is rushed and underdeveloped, resolving in a perfunctory manner that undermines its emotional weight. These subplots feel tacked on, their “secrets” failing to elevate the episode’s central themes or deepen its characters.

The episode’s primary focus is a murder investigation led by Bayliss and Pembleton. A petty criminal, later revealed to be a violent abuser of his girlfriend, is found dead in a car. Despite being shot, he had received medical care prior to death, leading the detectives to the ER run by Dr. Kate Wystan (Mimi Kennedy). Portrayed as a saintly figure—dedicated, skilled, and compassionate—Dr. Wystan impresses Bayliss. However, clues suggest the victim died due to negligence in the ER. The initial suspect is Derek Sherman (Gabriel Casseus), a young Black nurse with a strained relationship with Dr. Wystan. Yet the investigation pivots when it’s revealed that Dr. Wystan herself had a personal motive: the victim’s type of criminal behaviour (robbery) had left her husband gravely injured. Confronted at her home, Dr. Wystan confesses, leaving Bayliss devastated by the realisation that a seemingly virtuous woman will lose her career and family over worthless scum.

The premise tackles complex ethical questions but the execution falters. Dr. Wystan’s idealised portrayal clashes jarringly with the gritty realism that defines Homicide. Her sudden descent into killing instead of healing lacks psychological depth, reducing her to a melodramatic stereotype. The victim, meanwhile, is rendered as a purely despicable figure, stripping the scenario of nuance. The script compounds this by having Pembleton, the episode’s moral anchor, scold Bayliss for missing the fact that Dr. Wystan committed “murder”—a line that rings hollow, as the investigation’s evidence suggests manslaughter at worst. This oversight undermines the episode’s credibility, prioritising shock over logic.

The episode’s chief weakness lies in its uneven pacing and suboptimal writing by Maria D. Legaspi. The main plot, which could have delved into the moral complexities of urban healthcare and systemic violence, is undermined by a reliance on melodrama. The juxtaposition of Dr. Wystan’s saintly image with her act feels less like a critique of human fallibility and more like a cheap twist. Meanwhile, the subplot involving Lewis’s estranged brother is hamstrung by poor development; its abrupt introduction and resolution leave audiences uninvested.

The Howard/Munch subplot is particularly egregious. Its sole purpose seems to be exploiting Munch’s eccentricities without contributing to character growth or thematic cohesion. Worse still, the chase scene involving the intellectually disabled suspect begins as slapstick—a chaotic, almost comedic pursuit—but abruptly shifts to a grim, predictable soap opera scenario. This tonal whiplash disrupts the episode’s otherwise grounded tone, highlighting the script’s lack of focus.

I’ve Got a Secret ultimately feels like a misstep for Homicide: Life on the Street. While the series thrived on its unflinching realism and morally grey storytelling, this episode leans too heavily into melodrama and underdeveloped subplots. For all its ambition, I’ve Got a Secret reinforces why Homicide, despite its critical acclaim, never captured the mainstream imagination: it’s too messy, too unpolished, and too unafraid to leave audiences uncomfortable. In this case, that discomfort stems not from the show’s realism but from its own creative misfires.

RATING: 5/10 (++)

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