The Jim McBride interview went smoothly enough. Fortunately, the press conference at LAPD headquarters had provided an abundance of footage in which Police Chief Clarence Weidemeyer, the latest in a revolving door of short-termers to occupy the position, explained the official theory: “We have arrested local restaurateur Roger Charbonnet in connection with the explosion that claimed the life of comedian and television talk-show host Desmond O’Day and destroyed portions of the Harold Di Voss Theater in Hollywood. It is our belief the explosive device was, in fact, intended to kill another performer on Mr. O’Day’s late-night show, William Blessing, whom Charbonnet considered a rival.”
For the most part, all I had to do was agree with Chief Weidemeyer’s report. There was a moment when McBride asked me about the source of Roger’s antipathy. To avoid getting into a discussion about who may or may not have murdered Tiffany Arden, I had to twist my answers so much I almost fell off my chair. McBride sensed my discomfort and moved on to another question.
The Midnight interview was another matter altogether.
In the first place, the whole show seemed off. Gibby’s opening monologue was neither clean enough to pass Bill Cosby’s standards nor vulgar enough to be distinctive. Most of it was of the “I shouldn’t even be doing this!” variety, none of it capable of eliciting more than a few errant chuckles from a studio audience that expected more, having been put through a tougher security check than it takes to get into the Pentagon.
Due to the low wattage of our celebrity guests—a TV hero from the seventies who was running for governor of Arizona, a starlet who took time from plugging her upcoming movie and her “naughty new website” to teach Gibby how to tie a knot in a cherry stem with his tongue, and Gilberto, the new Guatemalan singing sensation—my interview was kept till last.
By then the show seemed to be dragging on longer than the Academy Awards. Even more vexing, when the time finally came for our dog-and-pony routine, Marcus Oliphant seemed to think he was auditioning for 60 Minutes. Or maybe FOX News.
“Tell us how you felt, Billy, when the universe suddenly exploded in a white flash of destruction and death?”
I stared at him, trying not to focus on how the thick pancake makeup was making his age-wrinkled face resemble a raised relief map of the Great Smoky Mountains. “A little like I feel now, Marcus,” I said. “Only not as vulnerable.”
His questions, though overly dramatic and verbose, were on target enough to get me to respond with a detailed account of the minutes leading up to the explosion.
“But how fortunate that was for you, up there above the chaos and madness. Tell us exactly what you were going through.”
“I was pretty uncomfortable, hanging twenty feet in the air. Des was singing. I remember thinking that when he finished his song I’d be lowered to the ground, so I was wishing he’d hurry it up. And …”
At that point, I realized I’d forgotten something about last night. Something possibly important that I should tell Detective Brueghel. Making that mental note, I committed one of television’s cardinal sins. I froze on camera. Not for very long, but enough to cause Marcus a few anxious moments. His eyes were starting to bulge, and he was turning pale under all that makeup.
Lolita, standing just to the left of the camera, reacted to the sudden silence by whipping her bandaged head in my direction. She placed a cupped hand behind one ear and wiggled it, glaring at me.
“And”—I repeated, trying to recall where I was in the answer—“Des stopped singing and said his goodbye to the audience. And that’s when the explosion took place.”
“You were knocked unconscious?”
“I think so,” I replied. “A lot of things were happening all at once.”
“And Desmond O’Day died?” Marcus said.
“That would be an understatement,” I said.
“You two were close, you and Des. I believe you were living together.”
Huh? “Hey, Marcus, just because two guys barbecue a few steaks in their bathrobes, it doesn’t mean …” I stopped because the perplexed look on Marcus’s face reminded me with whom I was dealing. “Actually, to answer your question seriously, Des and I first met less than two weeks ago on a flight out here from New York. He mentioned that there was an empty guesthouse on his property and asked if I wanted to use it during my short visit. So I guess you could say we were living together.
“Des seemed like a nice enough guy, and his death is certainly a tragedy. But we were not what I would call close friends.”
“Uh-huh. Well, let’s move on to the presumed villain of the piece, Roger Charbonnet. He hated you for something that happened in the past. Tell us about it.”
It was a very broad question that required a slippery answer. “You’d have to ask him why he hated me, if indeed he did.”
“Can’t we assume that? He tried to kill you.”
“Maybe we should let a jury decide what Roger Charbonnet did, or tried to do,” I said.
“The evidence seems pretty conclusive. But you’re correct, Billy. Innocent until proven, and all that that implies. So how do you suppose the killer managed to get the explosive into the theater?”
I was a little surprised to realize I had an answer. That rear door that, for some reason, wasn’t as guarded as it should have been when Fitz and I made our exits. But it was another strike against the network’s security arrangements, so I answered, “I wouldn’t want to speculate.”
“According to the L.A. Times website, Char … the killer was disguised as a stagehand,” Marcus said, “wearing a black bodysuit similar to that worn by the legitimate stagehands. Those outfits were unique, weren’t they?”
I went into a semi-elaborate description of the ninja suits and how they fit into the set and lighting designs of the show. The designs and the black suits were not being used in the show’s present iteration.
“The situation was made to order for him, wasn’t it?” Marcus said. “He puts on the suit and becomes … the invisible man.”
“That’s a likely assumption,” I said.
“Oh, it’s more than that,” Marcus said. “He was definitely dressed in the black bodysuit.”
I gave him a patronizing smile. “Unless there was an eyewitness or a confession, I don’t see how even the savants at the L.A. Times could know without doubt what the killer was wearing.”
“The police found the black bodysuit at Roger Charbonnet’s home,” Marcus said. “He’d tried to hide it in his closet.”
As surprising as that revelation was, I remained aware of the little red light on the camera and refrained from letting my jaw drop, at least not too far. “Well, let’s hear it for the police,” I said, before getting another of Lolita’s “Speak up” signals.
“It’s believed the bomb was some form of homemade plastic explosive,” Marcus said. “Possibly as small as a cigarette pack or a man’s wallet. Did you see anything like that?”
“No,” I said, not daring to challenge him on the “It’s believed.” I hadn’t heard a thing about what the bomb had looked like. The info had probably been in that same damned L.A. Times report.
“If it was that small, it seems logical he had hidden it under his clothes,” Marcus speculated. “He had access to the stage area. Am I right that there were strips of tape to indicate where you—or as it happened, Des O’Day—were supposed to be standing at the close of the show?”
I answered in the affirmative.
“Then it was just a matter of the killer walking out and leaving the bomb near the tape strips,” Marcus concluded.
“It could have happened that way,” I said. I didn’t really think so, but this wasn’t the ideal time or place to hold a discussion of how the bomb was positioned or triggered.
“Well, I’m sure I’m speaking for all of us when I say, of Desmond O’Day”—he turned to face the camera—“good night, sweet comic prince. May flights of angels sing you to your rest. And to our own Billy Blessing, bravo, sir. Blessed are we to have you with us still.”
Lolita was giving him the “hurry, hurry” arm windup.
“This is Marcus Oliphant, discussing last night’s tragedy with one of its near victims, WBC’s own Chef Billy Blessing. Stay tuned. There’s much more to come on The Midnight Show.”