Joseph Wambaugh - The Secrets of Harry Bright

“Now I know it was Coy Brickman!” Sidney Blackpool said. “It proves he drove right to the place where the Rolls was buried in the tamarisk trees. He came back and he didn’t report a thing about the Rolls.”

“Maybe he didn’t see it.”

“He had to’ve been parked right there . I believe O. A. Jones is gonna hear Harry Bright’s cassette and say that’s the voice he heard that day.”

“This is evidence of murder?” Paco said. “Don’t need too much evidence in L.A. these days.”

“There’s more,” Sidney Blackpool said. “The Cobra boss, Billy Hightower, he personally told Harry Bright that he saw Jack Watson’s good pal, a guy named Terry Kinsale, up in Solitaire Canyon in Watson’s Porsche. He was trying to buy some crank the night a the murder. Did Harry Bright ever mention that to you?” No.

“He didn’t mention it to Palm Springs P.D. either. He didn’t mention it to anybody . A mental lapse maybe?”

“There has to be an explanation,” Paco said. “Maybe he did notify somebody at Palm Springs P.D. and they lost the information. We could clear it up if we could talk to Harry Bright.” Then Paco chewed on it for a second and said, “Did you run it down? That particular lead?”

“Yeah,” Sidney Blackpool said. “It didn’t pan out. Terry knows nothing. But the point is, Harry Bright didn’t pass on the tip. I think Harry Bright wanted them to keep thinking Watson was killed by kidnappers, or bikers, or your everyday opportunist thugs. I don’t think Coy Brickman or Harry Bright wanted Palm Springs P.D. to run out of hoodlums and start looking for …”

“For what?”

“For your sergeants.”

“Why? Why would Coy Brickman or Harry Bright ice that kid? Gimme some motive!”

“I don’t know.”

Paco Pedroza sighed in exasperation and said, “This ain’t getting nowhere. So whaddaya want from me now?”

“I wanna play a cassette for O. A. Jones. If it’s the singing voice he heard that day, I wanna call Palm Springs P.D. and see how they care to handle the next move.”

“Which is?”

“A ballistics test on Coy Brickman’s gun. And Harry Bright’s. The slug they got from the Watson kid’s head wasn’t as smashed as it might’ve been. There’s a chance. Just a chance of a make.”

“Let’s go to the station,” Paco said.

“Where’s Coy Brickman today?” Otto asked.

“He’s working swing shift. He’ll be on duty in about forty-five minutes. You can have O. A. Jones right now.”

“Let’s do it,” Sidney Blackpool said.

Anemic Annie knew something was up when Paco came storming in the front door and said, “Annie, call O. A. Jones in here. Code two.”

A few minutes later she saw the Hollywood detectives enter, looking every bit as grim as Paco Pedroza. When they entered Paco’s office he slammed the door, which was something he did only when he was about to give one of his cops a royal ass chewing. Anemic Annie knew that something was up, all right.

After she reached O. A. Jones on the radio, the telephone rang. She answered it and told the caller that Sergeant Coy Brickman wouldn’t be in for half an hour at least. The caller left a message that she jotted down and tossed in the sergeant’s incoming basket. The call was from a pawnbroker.

O. A. Jones didn’t look very happy when he entered the chief’s office. There was a Sony cassette player sitting on the chief’s desk. The young cop got scared, thinking that they wanted to record a statement from him.

Then Sidney Blackpool said, “Sit down. I want you to hear a few songs.”

The kid looked relieved, and said, “Is it ‘Make Believe’? I heard it. I’m positive that was the song. You don’t need to …”

“We think we have a voice that might sound familiar,” Sidney Blackpool said.

“The killer’s voice? How …”

“Just sit down, son,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Let’s listen.”

Paco punched the play button and the three men watched the young cop. Halfway through the first song, O. A. Jones started to say something, thought better, and sat back. But he didn’t relax from that instant. He sat rigid and didn’t twitch. Sidney Blackpool knew that he’d recognized his sergeant’s voice.

When Harry Bright introduced “I’ll Be Seeing You” in his speaking voice, O. A. Jones still didn’t move a muscle.

When the last song was played, Sidney Blackpool said, “Well?”

O. A. Jones looked at the detective. Then at Otto Stringer. He looked at Paco Pedroza, then back to Sidney Blackpool. He said, “I ain’t sure.”

“What?”

“Sergeant Bright,” O. A. Jones said. “I … he sings sorta like the guy. I mean, it’s old-fashioned, his style and all, but

“ Could it be him?”

O. A. Jones looked at the chief of police again, and Paco said, “You gotta tell the truth, boy. This ain’t no time for wrongheaded loyalty. But it’s gotta be the absolute truth.”

“Okay, then,” O. A. Jones said, facing Sidney Blackpool, who was so tense he was about to come out of the chair.

“It was Harry Bright!” the detective said.

“No, I can’t say that.”

“What?”

“I cant , Sarge! I had heatstroke almost. It’s been a long time now. I been listening to so many singers and so many songs now, I can’t say that.”

“What if he was singing ‘Make Believe’?” Sidney Blackpool was desperate. “Would that make a difference? If I could find a cassette with Harry Bright singing ‘Make Believe,’ would you be able to say for sure?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” O. A. Jones said. “I got a good imagination. I can think of Harry Bright’s voice doing ‘Make Believe.’ But I still can’t say for sure.”

“Because he’s your sergeant!”

“No, sir,” O. A. Jones said. “Because it’s too … important . I gotta be sure beyond a reasonable doubt here. Maybe I gotta be sure way past a reasonable doubt before I can say in my heart that I heard Harry Bright’s voice out there that day. I just ain’t able to say it.”

“Goddamn it! You know that was Harry Bright!” Sidney Blackpool leaped to his feet.

Paco Pedroza came forward in his chair. Otto Stringer stopped leaning against the wall. O. A. Jones was startled.

“Easy, Sidney,” Otto said.

“That’ll be all, Jones,” said Paco. “You can go back in the field now.”

“I’m sorry, Sarge,” O. A. Jones said to Sidney Blackpool, who sat back down, pale with rage, gripping the arms of the chair. The young cop couldn’t get out fast enough.

When Otto closed the door Paco Pedroza leaned his elbows on his desk and spoke with a trembling voice: “Who do you think you are? You come into my town and try to intimidate my policeman in my station house? Who in the fuck you think you are?”

“Listen, Chief,” Otto said. “This case’s gotten outta hand. Sidney just …”

“This case should be in the hands a Palm Springs P.D.,” Paco Pedroza said. “That is, if you guys had some startling new evidence. But so far, all I hear is, you proved Harry Bright can sing. Which I already knew. And that a ukulele Coy probably gave him was found in Solitaire Canyon.”

“That is a bit unusual, Chief,” Otto said, trying to reduce the level of tension in the room.

“It might be to some hotshot gangbusters from the big city, trying to push people around without knowing what the fuck they’re talking about. Maybe if you’da asked me, maybe if you’da behaved like professionals , I coulda explained all this in the beginning.”

Then Sidney Blackpool spoke. The color was back in his face when he said, “Go ahead, Chief. Explain it.”