by Bill Morris
Bledsoe took a $20 bill out of his wallet and gave it to the bewildered girl for cab fare. He kissed her and told her he’d see her at her place as soon as he got this cleared up. Then he fell in between the detectives, walking toward the Plymouth with a bounce in his stride that neither of them liked one bit.
The dance in the yellow room began slowly, the way Doyle had planned it. With Jimmy, Sgt. Schroeder and half a dozen detectives watching from the hallway, Doyle offered cigarettes, coffee, soft drinks. Bledsoe didn’t want anything. He seemed relaxed. Didn’t ask for a telephone or a lawyer, didn’t even need to use the bathroom.
Doyle promised he would make this as quick and painless as possible and would do everything in his power to keep his bloodthirsty partner at bay—provided Bledsoe gave him straight answers. Bledsoe nodded. Doyle opened by expressing amazement at how Oakland had managed to piss that ballgame away, and Bledsoe jumped on this, obviously glad to talk about anything but the thing they had brought him here to talk about. Then Doyle asked Bledsoe about his job at Oakland Hills, his Uncle Bob, just letting him know he knew things. Finally Doyle said, “What’s with that farmer get-up you wear to the library sometimes?”
“That’s what we use to wear when I was with Snick down South.”
“Ahh.” Doyle guessed Snick had something to do with Bledsoe’s civil rights work. Which made this a good time to ask, “How’s your book coming along?”
There was no surprise on Bledsoe’s face. He said, “Real well, thanks. I just found out that Ebony magazine’s going to run six chapters of it—like a serial—starting in December.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He said it sincerely, with no false pride.
Doyle began to circle closer. “That musta been rough when they picked you and your buddy Walter Mitchell up during the riot.”
There was a slight pause, nothing serious. “Guess you heard about that at the fish shack in Algonac.”
“That’s right. There and in the arrest records.”
“Me and my big mouth. Yeah, it was pretty rough, all right.”
“That garage still stinks.”
“I don’t doubt it. I’ve smelled worse though.”
“Where at—Mississippi or Alabama?”
There was no hesitation this time. “Mississippi’s definitely got the worst jails. I believe those crackers are proud of it.”
Doyle wanted to keep him off balance. “Heard from your brother lately?”
“Which one?”
Nice try. “The only one you got. Wes.”
“Yeah, we talked on the phone a couple days ago.”
“I understand Wes was quite the war hero.”
“Yeah, to hear him tell it he killed a couple hundred Viet Cong with his bare hands—then cut off their balls and sewed ’em in their mouth.”
“That must hurt.”
“You know it’s got to.” Bledsoe was smiling, as cocky as he’d been back on Plum Street. Doyle wanted to make that smile go away.
“Did Wes have a good time while he was in Oakland?”
Another pause as the smile vanished and the eyes darted. Then came the falsely cool reply: “He didn’t say much about it one way or the other, to tell you the truth.”
“Any idea what he was doing out there?”
“Probably selling guns to the Panthers. Isn’t that what all the niggers are doing in Oakland these days?”
Doyle was impressed. This was, indeed, a worthy adversary. It was time to find out just how worthy. Doyle reached under his chair and took a bulky reel-to-reel tape recorder out of a box and set it on the table. “Got something I want to play for you, Willie.”
“I dig ’Trane and Miles.”
“No shit. Me too. You checked out ‘Round About Midnight’ yet?”
“Picked it up last week. I think it’s the best thing Miles’s ever done.”
“I agree. Well, this isn’t exactly jazz, but see if it doesn’t sound familiar.” Doyle switched on the tape.
“Where you been, bruh? Been tryin to reach you all damn day long,” boomed the drunken voice of Wes Bledsoe.
“I been out. What up?”
Bledsoe waved a hand and Doyle shut off the tape. “You don’t need to play the rest of that,” Bledsoe said. “I already had that conversation. I know how it turns out. That an F.B.I. tape?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, as in definitely. We got schooled on all that COINTELPRO wiretap shit when I was with Snick. At the time I thought it was just a buncha brothers being paranoid. Naive me, as usual. One thing they taught us is that those tapes aren’t admissible in court. They’re just one a J. Edgar Hoover’s sick little hobbies. Besides, my brother’s in Saigon by now, or Bangkok. You gonna go over there and bring him in for questioning too?”
“Maybe. But I don’t think we’ll need to. Since you don’t want to listen to the tape, let me refresh your memory.” Doyle reached into his files and took out a typed transcript of the tape recording. “You said to your brother, quote, ‘You remember those three guns from the roof of your building, that night during the riot?’ Unquote. Which three guns were you talking about?”
Again he didn’t hesitate, like he was ready for the question. “The three guns my brother took up on the roof.”
“Why’d he take three guns up there?”
“Cause he got beat half to death by some cops at the Algiers Motel and he wanted to see if he could shoot him a cop.”
“Did he?”
“I got no idea.”
“Did he try?”
“He fired, I don’t know, half a dozen rounds. But he was pretty messed up from the beating—plus he was drinking. Tell you the truth, I don’t think he coulda hit Ford Hospital.”
“Were you on the roof with him?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you go up there?”
“I wanted to keep an eye on him, make sure he didn’t fall off the roof or shoot himself. Like I say, he was pretty messed up.”
“You fire any of the guns?”
“Nosir.”
“Not even once?”
“Nosir.”
“You had to be some kind of pissed-off after spending twenty-three hours in that garage.”
“Sure, I was pissed off. But I didn’t fire any gun.”
“Was it just the two of you on the roof?”
“Yessir.”
“A woman in the building told us she heard three men on the roof.”
He shrugged. “Maybe she was hearing things. Was just me and Wes.”
Doyle flipped through the transcript. “When your brother called from Oakland, he wanted to know why you were asking so many questions about the guns. And you said, quote, ‘Want to make sure those guns don’t come back to bite us.’ End quote. What did you mean by that?”
“Meant I didn’t want to get picked up on some bogus weapons charge.”
“Bogus? You didn’t know those guns were illegal?”
“I don’t know legal from illegal. But it’s illegal to fire a gun inside the city limits, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And since I didn’t fire any of the guns—or even touch ’em—I didn’t want to get picked up on some bogus weapons charge on account of my drunk brother.”
It was time for Doyle to play his next chip. “How’d your brother get all those guns from Alabama to Detroit?”
“All what guns?” he said right away, like he’d been expecting the question and had rehearsed the answer.
“Those three guns on the roof of the Larrow Arms, for starters. And the couple dozen guns he sold to black militants all over town before, during and after the riot.”
Again Bledsoe shrugged. “I wouldn’t know a thing about that. Only time I ever seen my brother handle guns was that night on the roof, and that’s God’s honest truth.”
“That’s a goddam lie. Caldwell Petty, the police chief in Tuskegee, told me you and your brother used to blast a shitload of guns in
the woods outside of town.”
“A shitload? That cracker’s got an imagination. That was two deer rifles and a snub-nose .38. All registered in my brother’s name. I thought we were talking about guns in Detroit.”
“How’d you and your brother get from Alabama to Detroit?”
“I drove him in my old Buick. The one I traded in at Murphy’s.”
“Your brother ever say anything about smuggling guns back from Vietnam?”
“Only time I heard him mention guns was that phone call from Oakland, when he said he brokered something for the Panthers. Which was probably just more a his bullshit. Man’s all mouth.”
“Well, your brother might be all mouth, but it so happens we’ve got some of his best customers in custody. We’ve also got a lot of the merchandise he moved here in Detroit—including the gun that killed Helen Hull. That name mean anything to you?”
“Nope.”
Doyle could see that gears were turning in his head now. A good sign. Bledsoe was trying to figure just how much the police knew, and if they really had his brother’s customers in custody, and a murder weapon. The door opened on cue and Jimmy walked in and dropped a stack of photographs on the table. He remained standing. Bledsoe sat up straighter, another good sign.
“Got some good news and some bad news, Willie,” Jimmy said. “Which you want first?”
“Your call.”
“Okay, here’s the good news. We just this morning lifted some razor-sharp prints off the gun that killed Helen Hull—”
“Who’s this Helen Hull I’m hearing so much about?”
“Lady got killed by a sniper in a hallway at the Harlan House Motel, just across the Lodge from the Larrow Arms,” Jimmy said. “Happened early in the morning on July 26th, that was a Wednesday during the riot, a few hours after Thomas Henderson bailed you and your buddy Walter Mitchell out of jail. Here’s what she looked like.”
Jimmy slid the crime-scene photograph across the table toward Bledsoe—Helen Hull lying on the hallway floor, eyes open, hands raised, a bullet hole in her chest. Doyle was studying Bledsoe’s face, but it was hard to read the expression. Horror, definitely. Guilt, too?
“And,” Jimmy went on, “we matched the prints from the gun to the prints on a sixteen oh-zee can a Schlitz malt liquor we found on the roof of the Larrow Arms. That’s the building where your brother use to stay.”
“I know where my brother use to stay.”
“You ready for the bad news?”
“Sure.” He actually seemed calm. Doyle was beginning to like him.
“Your fingerprints are a perfect match.”
That was supposed to be a kidney punch. That was the moment when most suspects started to blubber and grovel. But Bledsoe’s face showed nothing this time, and Doyle felt his first twinge of panic.
“Where’d you get my fingerprints for comparison?” Bledsoe said, cool as could be.
“From the night you and Walter got picked up and booked during the riot.”
“Ah.”
Jimmy pressed on. “There’s more. Lady who lives in the building saw your old Buick—the one you unloaded at Murphy’s after you painted it black—she saw it pull up to the building way after curfew, early that Wednesday morning. Saw two men get out and carry a duffel bag into the building. One was big and fat, had a limp, like your brother—the other was tall and thin, like you.”
“This lady see the men’s faces?”
Jimmy ignored the question. “Few minutes later the woman heard three voices on the roof. Then she heard nine gunshots.”
Bledsoe’s face still showed nothing. He said to Jimmy, “That’s interesting what you say about my fingerprints on the beer can.”
“Why’s that interesting?” Jimmy was smirking. Doyle was not.
“Cause I don’t drink Schlitz malt liquor.”
“Never?” Jimmy said, still smirking.
“Nope.”
“Not even a sip?”
“Naw, not since college.”
“What you got against the Bull?”
“Nothing personal. Too sweet for me’s all. Plus the hangover.”
“Don’t make no difference.” Jimmy was admiring the stack of photographs on the table. “All that matters is we got your fingerprints on the murder weapon. That’s all the jury gonna hear when we go to trial. I should say if you stupid enough to let this thing go to trial.”
Bledsoe still showed no emotion. A sick feeling was taking hold in Doyle’s stomach.
“Mind if I have a look?” Bledsoe said, still cool as could be.
“Be my guest.” Jimmy slid the photographs toward him.
Bledsoe sifted through the stack. “Which one of these you say’s the murder weapon?”
“The one you holding.”
While Bledsoe studied the picture, Doyle could see that he was seeing something he liked, and he liked it a lot. Bledsoe said, “A Winchester Model 70.”
“Right.” Jimmy’s smile was getting brighter.
“That a Starlight infra-red scope on it?”
“Sho nuff is.” Jimmy turned to Doyle. “Man knows his guns.” Jimmy still didn’t see it coming.
“My brother had a Navy book with all these guns in it,” Bledsoe said. “He studied that thing the way some guys study Playboy magazine. Is this Winchester a thirty caliber?”
“Right again.”
Bledsoe flipped the photograph onto the table and let out a sigh. There was no mistaking what was in that gesture. It was relief and triumph and, biggest of all, surprise. Doyle realized then that the picture of the murder weapon had revealed something to Bledsoe that even he hadn’t realized till now. Bledsoe said, “I never touched that gun before in my life.”
Jimmy nearly choked. “Say what?”
“I said I never touched that gun—I never touched any Winchester Model 70—in my life. Never. So it’d have to be some kind of miracle if my fingerprints were on that one.”
Jimmy looked stricken, like a man who’d just patted his pockets and realized his wallet was missing.
Bledsoe said, “You sit there and tell me with a straight face that my fingerprints are on some murder weapon, and I tell you I know for a fact you’re lying. Same with the Schlitz can. I haven’t touched a can a Schlitz in years.” He leaned back in his chair. “Time to cut the shit, gentlemen. You going to charge me with a crime or not? If so, let’s get it on. I got a lawyer’s phone number right here in my pocket.”
Doyle knew then that they were dead in the water. Jimmy shot him a look that said he knew it too. They both believed there was a third man on the roof because the prints on the Winchester didn’t match Willie Bledsoe’s and, based on a set of prints they got from the military police at the San Diego Navy base, they didn’t match Wes Bledsoe’s either. So they were pretty sure Willie was lying about being alone on the roof with his brother, but they had no lever to pry the truth out of him. Of course it was possible that Wes or Willie had fired the fatal shot, then wiped down the gun, and someone else’s prints got on it later. Doyle and Jimmy were hoping that the wiretap and the eyewit and the photograph of the victim and the knowledge that there were people in custody would spook Bledsoe into confessing, maybe into giving up the name of the third man on the roof, at the very least the names of some of Wes’s customers. They had gotten signed confessions with a lot less. But Bledsoe was way too cool for that—and while that didn’t mean he was definitely innocent, it meant it would be damn near impossible to prove he was guilty, which amounted to the same thing. And Bledsoe seemed to know that the detectives didn’t have anywhere near enough evidence to charge him. Doyle knew what Jimmy was going to say next because he always said it when a suspect asked if they were going to charge him with a crime. This time, though, it was the wrong thing to say.
“No,” Jimmy said, “we’re not going to charge you just yet, but I’d be perfectly fuckin happy—”
Bledsoe held up a hand. Then he reached in his wallet and placed a black and gold business card
on the table. Jimmy picked it up. “Look here. Man has Clyde Holland handling his legal representation. Nothin but the best for Mr. Willie Bledsoe.” Jimmy’s bluster was pathetic, a beaten man trying to save face. He said, “How long you been knowin Clyde the Glide?”
“We met in the bleachers at Tiger Stadium on Opening Day. That’s it. I’m not saying another word. Where’s the telephone?”
Willie Bledsoe never made the call to Clyde Holland. Doyle rode down with him in the elevator, neither man making eye contact, not a word passing between them. Then Doyle watched him walk across the marble lobby and through the swinging doors onto Beaubien Street. The bounce was back in his stride. It made Doyle almost happy to watch him melt into the night, still a free man. Hadn’t Doyle gotten a similar break—possibly an even bigger break—on the night Wilson Lee Pryor died?
Doyle was now convinced Willie Bledsoe was not their shooter. And for the first time he was convinced they would never find out who was.
25
WHEN WILLIE GOT TO THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS HE TURNED around and took one last look at 1300 Beaubien Street. Its limestone walls were sooty near the ground, as though rain had stained them with the blackest filth the earth had to offer. Each round-topped window was adorned with a bronze lion’s head. They were all sticking their tongues out at the world. Fuck you too, Willie thought. Goodbye and good riddance.
He walked to Woodward and boarded a northbound DSR bus. He would fetch his Deuce from Plum Street in the morning. He hurried to the back of the empty bus and watched police headquarters and the rest of downtown recede. It all shrank quickly, becoming small and insignificant and then disappearing, already a thing of the past, a trifle, nothing.
Here I am again, Willie thought, riding a bus while my life takes another dizzying turn. As the bus moved out Woodward, he realized that the things he’d just learned inside the yellow room may have had the power to free him, but they lacked the power to absolve him of a single thing. That was not how the world worked. Absolution was beyond the reach of most men. All he was hoping for when he’d walked into that yellow room was to save himself and his brother from justice that wasn’t just, to survive the myth that one more wrong could somehow make all the other wrongs right. When he walked into the yellow room the only thing that mattered was that he and Wes both remain free. And they had.
