Joseph Wambaugh - The Secrets of Harry Bright

It was nearly dark when he finished. Victor Watson had asked very few questions during the narrative. He sat staring at Sidney Blackpool and missed not a word. His eye sockets became progressively more hollow in the shadow from desert twilight. He looked even older than Sidney Blackpool remembered him. The detective consumed three glasses of water during the dissertation. He’d never felt more parched. He was slightly dizzy and a bit nauseated, like a diabetic. His jaw ached but he did not want a Johnnie Walker Black. He wanted to end this thing cold sober.

By the time the detective had finished, Victor Watson’s eyes were invisible. Sidney Blackpool was staring at empty sockets and could only imagine the granite irises.

Harry Bright had unforgettable eyes. When he’d crept close to his bed he could see them staring in their sockets: beautiful blue eyes. Victor Watson had no eyes at all. Sidney Blackpool looked at his water glass and waited.

When Victor Watson spoke, he said, “I accept full responsibility for the tragic event.”

Sidney Blackpool was about to console, to tell him that Jack’s death was not his father’s fault.

But Victor Watson said, “I should never’ve brought you into this case. Not you , Sidney. I believed we might have a kind of bonding, you and me. I felt, upon hearing about you, that it was …”

“An omen!” Sidney Blackpool said.

“Yes. Now I see it was just a mistake. A foolish tragic mistake.”

“Whadda you mean, Mister Watson? What mistake?”

“Perhaps my time in psychotherapy is worth something after all,” Victor Watson said. “I see myself in you. The way I was. The rage. The confusion. The guilt.”

“I don’t understand, Mister Watson.”

“I know you don’t, Sidney. I know. Call it a form of transference, but labels aren’t important. You’ve projected feelings from your life, feelings about your own lost son into this investigation. Can’t you see that?”

“But Mister Watson …”

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I saw in you a lost father of a lost boy who might succeed where others … well, I was right, and being right I was terribly wrong. I’m sorry to have done this to you.”

“Please, Mister Watson, I don’t understand!” Sidney Blackpool moved to the edge of the sofa but still could not see eyes in the hollow sockets. If only he could read the eyes. An investigator had to see the eyes!

“My son Jack,” Victor Watson said, “was the finest, brightest, most loving young man you would ever meet.”

“I believe that, Mister Watson.”

“Our relationship had the normal stresses of fathers and sons, but I think we handled it.”

“I believe that,” Sidney Blackpool said, and knocked over the empty water glass reaching for a cigarette.

“No one, but no one who had ever known Jack Watson could ever under any circumstances believe he was homosexual.”

“I didn’t say …”

“And no one, but no one, would ever believe he could be stupid enough … insane enough to drive up to that miserable canyon in the dead of night for any reason whatsoever, other than because a criminal held a gun to his head.” Then Victor Watson stood, but his eyes were still in darkness, backlit by the lamp. “A fact that was proved when a bullet was fired into his skull!”

“Please, Mister Watson, please …”

Victor Watson sat back down in the chair and said, “I find it all very interesting, what you’ve told me. It’s interesting that there’s a cop named Harry Bright who told somebody he shot my son while he was drunk.”

“I’ll name the somebody, Mister Watson!” Sidney Blackpool cried out. “It’s Sergeant Coy Brickman! He told his friend, Sergeant Coy …”

“Be quiet, please!” Victor Watson said. “I find it very interesting that an alcoholic cop possibly had a drunken hallucination when he heard about my son being found in the canyon where the cop slept off his drunken tour of duty. It’s particularly ironic that the drunk is himself the father of a lost son. That’s particularly ironic and very sad. But that’s all it is.…”

“But Coy Brickman, Mister Watson! Coy Brickman went to the canyon. He saw …”

“Did this Coy Brickman admit this to you, Sidney? Will he make that statement to me?”

“No, Mister Watson. But I know it’s true.”

“Did he admit that to you?”

“He didn’t admit it, but …”

“Will he admit it to anybody?”

“He won’t admit it to anyone, Mister Watson. But I know …”

“Sit back and try to be calm, Sidney,” Victor Watson said. “Try to understand what I’m saying to you.”

“My God,” Sidney Blackpool said. “My God!”

“What I’ve put you through, I’ll regret forever. I had no idea how little you’d traveled from the grave of your own son. I tried to use your empathy, but now I’ve done considerable harm to you.”

“My God, Mister Watson! This …”

“I believe that Jack had a friendship with this boy, Terry Kinsale. If you say so. But even this boy hasn’t claimed that there was anything … unwholesome in that friendship. I believe that this boy borrowed Jack’s Porsche. I believe he was a narcotics user and that Jack discovered it and didn’t approve. I believe in the substance of all the facts you’ve uncovered. And I’m impressed by your diligence and skill. But what no one who has ever known my son could ever believe is that he was some sort of hysterical faggot! Who went trailing after some valet-parking boy up in …” Victor Watson stopped and massaged his brow and shook his head. “And everything else you’ve told me is your theory, your hypothesis, your supposition. Can you substantiate by any independent source any of these … ideas of yours?”

“My partner, Otto Stringer,” Sidney Blackpool said quietly. “He might … he would agree with my hypothesis.”

“I see he’s not even here, Sidney. It probably made the poor man uncomfortable to think of coming here and listening to your … unfortunate conclusions about a boy you’ve never known and obviously never will, not in any sense.”

“Whadda you want from me, Mister Watson?” Sidney Blackpool pleaded.

“Nothing more, Sidney,” Victor Watson said. “You’re a hell of a detective to’ve done as much as you did.”

“The job, Mister Watson? The job!”

“What job?”

“Director of Security with Watson Industries! I’ve proved something, haven’t I? Even if you think my conclusions are wrong, you admit I’m a good investigator!”

“We have lots of investigators,” Victor Watson said. “And we’ve decided to fill that position with one of our own. It instills organizational loyalty to promote from within. Even your police department always selects the chief from within.”

“But this isn’t fair, Mister Watson!”

“Sidney, you’ve been put through a lot by a foolish old man. And I’ve never felt more like an old man than I do today.”

“It’s not fair, Mister Watson. This isn’t fair!”

“Sidney, of all people, you should know that life isn’t fair.”

“All right, now listen to me, Mister Watson. This whole case … maybe there’s an evil design here! You and me and Harry Bright? I thought it was all a fucking accident!”

“What?”

“Everything! But maybe I was wrong! I need more time to think!”

“About what?”

“This case. Maybe there’s a kind of design. Right now it’s drifting on me. Like sand in the wind!”

Now Victor Watson showed him his eyes. He switched on the desk lamp and removed a checkbook from the drawer. “I want to pay you for your services.”