Original subtitles

This is the city, Los Angeles, California.

Translation, the city of the angels.

3 million people work and play here.

When you get that many people together,

pressures can mount, and tempers wear thin,

and sometimes a halo slips.

That's when I start earning my pay.

I carry a badge.

It was Monday, February 11th.

It was fair in Los Angeles.

We were working the day watch out of Homicide Division.

The boss is Captain Hugh Brown.

My partner's Bill Gannon.

My name's Friday.

We reported in for work.

We checked to see what the night watch had left us.

One thing we knew for sure,

there hadn't been any shortage of trouble.

The story you are about to see is true.

The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Sure are a raft of them, aren't there?

Yeah.

5 80S, W6 wife beatings,

nine rapes, two suicide attempts.

Busy night. Must have been a full moon.

Yeah.

Who was it wrote that song,

"Sunday Night is the Lonely Night of the Week"?

That's "Saturday Night and it's the Loneliest Night."

Not according to this report.

Well, I've had a gut full.

I'm sick and tired of trying to do a job

and butting my head against a stone wall.

I've had it, Captain! Up to here, I said!

What's eating Maxwell, Skipper?

The Halter case.

Liquor store heist in Hollywood, owner was shot.

Yeah.

The case got thrown out of court.

Halter made a full statement, didn't he?

Yeah, but his attorney claimed undue use of force.

Force? I remember when Maxwell brought him in.

Couldn't shut him up.

Kept screaming he was guilty and wanted to cop out.

Lawyer claims Maxwell worked him over

before he brought him in.

Why? Because Halter was trying to blow a hole in his belly?

Maxwell would be a dead man if Halter's gun hadn't misfired.

DA covered all of that.

Said Maxwell should have been commended

for knocking him down instead of shooting him.

Judge agreed.

- That's not why he dismissed it. - Yeah?

Judge felt Maxwell didn't have enough cause to bust him.

We knew Halter was on the run.

By the time a warrant was issued,

he could have been in Mexico.

Yeah, I know.

Well, it's been a busy couple of weeks.

Carl is tired, we all are.

I'd like to give him a day or two,

but I just can't spare anybody right now.

Yeah, I guess we all blow a little steam

once in a while.

He'll be okay.

I hope so. He's a good man.

I'd hate to lose him.

Thursday, February 14th.

For the next three days, it seemed as though

half the people in Los Angeles

were trying to kill or maim the other half.

If they weren't beating each other

with blunt instruments, they were stabbing each other

with sharp ones or using guns.

The calls kept coming in faster

than we could fill out reports.

Joe, Bill, see you a minute?

Sorry, you're going to have to

take over Maxwell's workload for a while.

Did he come down with something?

Yeah, an occupational disease.

- What's that? - Frustration.

He hasn't shown up, he hasn't called in.

How long has it been, Skipper?

He didn't check in for his watch.

Maybe we can run out and see him.

No dice, Joe. He called in sick Monday.

I sent Myers and Veroni to see if he needed anything.

He wasn't home.

They found him in a saloon, half bombed.

Too bad.

We can't allow a man carrying a badge and a gun

to jump into a bottle, no matter what the reason.

No, sir.

He hasn't caused any trouble, has he?

Not yet, but I can't gamble he won't.

I talked to him, Joe.

I told him I was setting him down for two days.

When he came back, we'd forget about it.

He told me loud and clear

what I could do with my two days.

I didn't hear it.

But when he didn't show this morning,

that's as far as I could go.

I had to turn it over to Internal Affairs.

Well, it's no secret

that Carl has got personal problems, Skipper.

Know anybody who doesn't?

3:17 p.m.

Sergeants Frankie Isobel and Taylor Serci

of Internal Affairs Division wanted to talk to us.

One of IAD's main responsibilities

is to check on the conduct

of all officers in the department.

So far, they had been unable to locate Sergeant Carl Maxwell.

When is the last time you saw him?

Saturday morning about 8:30.

Did he say anything that might indicate

he was thinking of taking off?

No, we didn't talk to him.

He usually do a lot of drinking?

I never knew him to take more than a couple.

Said he didn't like the flavor of liquor.

According to the bartenders we talked to,

he's changed his taste in the last couple of days.

Maxwell's not a lush, if that's what you think.

Maybe not, but we still have to pick up that badge and gun.

You know, you're making him sound like a bum.

He's been on the force 12 years,

he's only fired that gun twice.

How many times has he been wandering around drunk with it?

Are you sure you can't think of any place we might find him?

If we knew, we'd tell you.

We don't like this any better than you do.

Department orders. We understand.

What's going to happen to him?

He's got a trial board on Monday.

He'll get a fair shake.

But if he doesn't show up for it...

- Yeah? - He's brought in.

We better talk to the old man.

- Right. Joe? - Yeah?

You're the one that ought to ask him.

- Why? - You've got the rank.

Well, you want to look for Maxwell too, don't you?

Certainly. It was my idea.

We'll both talk to him.

I'll wait right here outside the office.

If you need me, why, you just holler.

Oh, I couldn't do a thing like that to you.

- Why not? - It was your idea.

Captain, Joe would like to talk to you

if you got a minute.

Come on in the office, both of you.

What makes you think you can dig him out when IAD can't?

Huh?

You've been talking to Internal Affairs, haven't you?

Yes, sir.

You've piled up a lot of accrued days, haven't you?

Yes, sir.

So has every man in the division.

How much have you got coming?

46 days.

I asked you before, Gannon... Yes, sir?

Internal Affairs can't find him,

what makes you think you can?

Well, we'd like to give it a try.

And you would like four or five days to run it down?

Yes, sir, that ought to do it.

Two ought to do it.

That's all I can give you right now.

You know how tight things are.

Two will be fine. Don't waste them.

No, sir.

Just one more thing.

Yes, sir?

I want you to know I had the same idea.

4:10 p.m.

Bill and I met with Sergeant William Riddle,

the police department counselor.

Riddle is the department chaplain as well.

Carl Maxwell was an ex-serviceman,

and, like a lot of us,

we took our troubles to the Army chaplain.

Maybe Maxwell talked some of his

over with Chaplain Riddle.

Sorry, Bill.

Maxwell never came to me with any of his problems.

You think it was the Halter thing that did it to him?

I'm only guessing, but I've seen these things before.

I think having that case thrown out of court

was the final straw, but this blow-up appears to me

that it's been brewing for some time.

How do you mean, Bill?

You've seen it happen before.

How many officers do you know about

that have gone into traumatic shock

after having been wounded in the line of duty?

This wasn't Maxwell's problem, of course,

but there is a similarity.

His wound is of a deeper nature...

A mental laceration, you might call it.

Something like we knew in the service,

called it combat fatigue.

Yeah, could be.

Just as surely as some of the men

who get shot on the job and fall apart due to shock,

others break down due to the pressures of the job.

Some of the men who are wounded never recover

and have to be relieved of duty.

Some who suffer what we call combat fatigue

- are no different. - I see.

Now, please understand, I'm not implying for a minute

that Carl Maxwell should be or will be relieved of duty,

but one thing is certain.

If he has taken to the bottle,

his life expectancy as a working detective

in this department is relatively short.

You'd have a hearing before a trial board

and be dismissed.

That's generally the way these things go down, isn't it?

Yeah, if we just had a thread to pick up,

someplace to begin.

You figure Internal Affairs

has covered all the obvious places?

No question there.

Sometimes I think those guys

are better investigators than we are.

I won't comment on that. I used to work there.

I'm prejudiced in their favor.

But let me give you a thought.

Anything is more than we got now.

Maybe you're too close to it.

How do you mean, Bill?

You're looking for a friend, not a suspect.

Try approaching it the same way you would any other case,

even if Internal Affairs has been there.

- Yeah. - Start at the beginning.

4:55 p.m.

We decided to take Bill Riddle's advice.

We would start from scratch.

Since we were on off-duty time,

we checked my car out of the police personnel parking area.

Los Angeles is a big place to lose yourself in.

Undoubtedly that's what Carl Maxwell had in mind.

We knew Maxwell lived in an apartment building.

We drove over and talked with his landlady.

She told us the same story

she had told Internal Affairs Division.

She hadn't seen Maxwell in three days

and she had no idea where he might have gone.

1:00 a.m. For the next eight hours,

Bill and I covered every bar,

restaurant and bowling alley,

within a 10-mile radius of where Maxwell lived.

We batted zero.

Nobody had seen or heard from him

for at least three days.

2:18 a.m.

Before we called it a night,

we decided to stop and see Champ Ridgley.

Ridgley is an ex-light heavy we used to follow

when he fought at the Olympic Auditorium.

Maxwell and he used to box in the Golden Gloves

before Ridgley turned pro. They were good friends.

Hi, Sarge. Hi, Gannon.

- Champ. - How's it going, Champ?

Ain't seen you fellows for a while.

How about some doughnuts and coffee?

No, no doughnuts. Too fattening.

Just coffee, Champ.

Anything you say, Gannon.

- Sugar and cream? - No, no thanks.

No sir, never use it. Too fattening.

Gannon.

I got a new kind since I saw you last.

Chocolate orange with marshmallow,

toasted almonds and peanuts on top.

Well, I guess I'll try one after all.

Give it a little shot of whipped cream, too,

if you like, Bill.

No.

Well, all right.

Sure you'll like it, Gannon.

They've been selling like hotcakes.

Business been good, huh, Champ?

Can't complain.

It ain't like when I was going ten frames

every Friday night,

but I ain't bleeding as much, neither.

Tell me, you seen Carl Maxwell lately?

Not for a week or so.

Something bugging him, Sarge?

What makes you say that?

Well, it's like he's been, you know, kind of down.

He ain't in any trouble, is he?

No, no trouble.

I hope not. He's a good guy.

How's your girlfriend? What's her name, Flora?

Oh, that dame. Picked her up again.

What was it this time? Shoplifting?

I told her a thousand times, I said, "Flora, you gotta stop.

"How does it look to the neighbors,

"cops coming around all the time looking for the hot stuff?

"They don't even go to the hock shops anymore.

They come here first."

Who picked her up this time, Morelli?

Yeah.

He spends more time with her than he does with his wife.

You know what he found on her this time, Bill?

No, what?

A pair of water skis.

When did she learn to ski?

What ski?

She don't even know what they're for.

Once she blew it on a lawnmower.

Well, what was she going to do with a lawnmower?

I didn't ask.

I was afraid she might steal a lawn.

- You finished? - Yeah.

That was great, Champ.

You'll sell a lot of those.

You ought to try one, Joe. Nice and light.

- No, thanks. - Real taste sensation.

I'm sure. We got to be going, Champ.

Yeah. We'll see you, Champ.

Thanks. Sarge, do me a favor, will you?

- I'll try. - Stop in and say hello to Flora.

It will cheer her up.

I sure will. The next time I'm by the county jail.

Thanks a lot, Sarge.

If she hasn't stolen it.

Friday, February the 15th. - 30 a.m.

I picked Bill up early the next morning

and we headed for the Ventura Freeway.

Like a great many officers,

Carl Maxwell came from a police family.

We drove over to see his brother Al,

a sergeant working uniform out of Van Nuys division.

He lived in Reseda.

We knew Internal Affairs would have already checked with Al,

but we figured it wouldn't do any harm to talk to him again.

Well, what brings you two out here so early in the morning?

We'd like to talk to you, Al.

Morning, Sergeant Friday, Mr. Gannon.

Hello, boys.

Okay, gang. Time for school.

Don't forget your lunches.

Oh, yeah.

Nice kids.

Mary and I might keep them.

If you change your mind, Eileen will be glad

to take them off your hands.

You just try telling that to Mary.

You called me, Sergeant? Good morning, Joe, Bill.

Good morning, Mary.

You're just in time for breakfast.

No thanks, Mary, we've already eaten.

- Sit down, please. - Thank you.

Al, we were hoping you'd have some idea

where Carl might have gone.

I told IAD everything I know, Joe.

It didn't help them much.

How about you, Mary?

I wasn't home when they came by,

but I'm afraid I can't help much, either.

Carl is in a lot of trouble, isn't he?

Yeah, I'm afraid so.

Unless he appears for that trial board,

he could be dismissed.

Poor Carl.

You working this on your own time?

- Sort of. - Nice of you guys.

We've worked with Carl a lot of years, Al.

You know him better than anybody, Al.

What's suddenly got to him?

I don't think it was sudden, Bill.

I have been worried about him for quite a while.

How's that?

He hasn't been the same guy.

Didn't laugh as much. Wouldn't talk.

Couldn't seem to think of anything but his job.

I can't remember when he took his last day off.

Did you ever try to get him to see the department counselor?

Yeah, but he brushed it off.

Said he was in great shape

and that I was imagining things.

How long has this been going on?

Ever since Ellen died.

For two years now, Carl has been walking

around as though part of him is missing.

That's why he works so hard,

to fill up that empty space his wife left,

- so he won't have time to think. - Yeah.

He's put all his emotions into the job.

That's why things hit him so hard.

If he gets kicked off the department

he'll really have nothing left.

Yeah, I guess.

Are you sure he didn't say anything

about where he was going?

Nothing, Bill.

No, I've been wracking my brain.

Wait a minute.

I don't know if it means anything.

Go on, Mary.

When he was here last week... You were on night watch, Al...

He talked about the happiest time of his life.

Said he supposed he ought to be grateful

for at least that much happiness.

- Yeah. - On his honeymoon.

Did he say where?

Someplace up near Big Bear, wasn't it, Mary?

A Swiss place. No, a place that looked Swiss.

Kind of a chalet-type hotel.

Worth a try. Wish I could go with you,

but I've got night watch the rest of the month.

I think we can handle it, Al.

If we can find him, that is.

Are you policemen?

- That's right, son. - That's Carl's son Matt.

He's been staying with us since Ellen passed away.

My daddy is a policeman.

I know. We're friends of his.

He's not here. He went away.

Well, we're going to find him for you.

I better come with you.

I'm afraid not, not this time, Matt.

What if you can't find him yourself?

It's never clean and simple, is it?

No.

There's always an innocent by-stander.

1:37 p.m.

Bill and I drove out the San Bernardino Freeway

and headed east for the 100-mile trip

up to Big Bear Mountain Resort.

Big Bear is 6,750 feet up

in the San Bernardino Mountains.

It's about a two-hour drive from the city.

3:43 p.m. We drove into Big Bear.

It had been snowing, but the sun was out

and it was a fairly warm day.

We started looking for chalet-type hotels.

4:26 p.m.

The third place we hit was called the Summit Lodge.

It turned out to be the jackpot.

Carl?

You're a little out of your territory, aren't you?

A little.

You came up to look at the scenery?

No. We came up here to look for you.

How about a drink?

No, thanks.

Have a drink, Friday.

Not now, Carl.

Oh, on duty and all that jazz, huh?

Come on, Carl, it's been a long drive.

Talk to us.

Yeah, well, that's a long story.

Let's just say I've had it.

That wasn't worth the trip.

It's the best I can do.

No, it isn't, Carl. We want to know why.

Why you're throwing 12 years of good police work

right out the window.

Where do you want me to start, Joe?

Takes quite a while to cover 12 years.

We've got the time.

12 long years, tried and true.

Yeah, well, they were a total waste,

how's that for openers.

You don't really mean that, Carl.

Don't I?

You tell me, who cares about all that good police work?

We do.

Mary cares, your brother Al, and Matt.

Sure, let's talk about Matt.

You know how much money I could have made

in any other job in 12 years?

Enough to send him to a good school

by the time he was ready.

Maybe set him up in business.

Or don't I owe him anything?

A lot more than you're giving him doing this.

He's your son, you owe him a father.

A sober one.

Neither of you understand what I'm talking about, do you?

Oh yeah. I read you real good,

but all I can hear is a loud cry of self-pity.

Is it self-pity breaking your back

trying to do a job that nobody seems to want you to do?

You had a case thrown out of court.

You've had it happen before, we all have.

It doesn't seem to be enough to be a cop anymore.

You gotta be a Philadelphia lawyer,

a diplomat, a psychologist,

an expert on social behavior.

Just part of the job, Carl, it always has been.

Yeah, you tell me about it, Gannon.

When I first signed on for this job,

I was given to understand that my primary function

was to enforce the laws, not make them,

not question them, but to enforce them.

Sure, I know a certain amount of diplomacy is required,

along with tolerance and understanding.

The old hat squads are gone,

along with the hot lights in the back room.

The blue-jacketed bullies

who used to slug a confession out of a man

are a thing of the past.

Look, when police work became a profession

instead of a male fist,

I knew I wanted to be part of it.

I believe in equality and fair play,

the right to descend in an open society,

the right of privacy, all the inalienable rights

guaranteed under the constitution.

Now it seems to me

the pendulum has swung too far the other way.

Nobody ever told you that badge was a ticket to paradise.

No, Joe, nobody ever told me that,

but they did tell me that people make the laws;

we don't, and that they pay us to enforce them.

Well, it seems like somehow,

nobody really wants you to do the job too good.

Look, you pick up a suspect.

If you don't treat him like a VIP,

he'll be out on the streets, screaming police brutality.

He can confess to rape, murder,

child molesting, arson or assault,

but unless you've given him a five-minute speech

that tells him not to talk to you,

you're the one who is in trouble.

You take away a policeman's right to interrogate,

you cut off his hands.

A while back, the President of the United States

came to the city.

He couldn't even walk in the front door of a hotel

to make a speech.

He had to use the rear entrance

because 10,000 people were guilty of poor deportment.

They refused to share with him

the self-same constitutional rights

they were claiming for themselves,

the right of free access, to come and go as you please,

the right of free speech.

And those are the same people who pay our salaries.

The same people who cry foul

when we try and enforce their laws.

Look, there a 5,200 of us in this city of 3 million.

We're a minority group, too.

Well, you tell me, Joe.

Is it worth it?

Depends on what you want, Carl.

If you're looking for applause, no,

you should have been an actor.

If it's money you're after, truck drivers make more.

If you expect 100% gratitude

for doing a job that's got to be done,

then somebody goofed 12 years ago

when they let you get by.

You're right, Carl, we are a minority group,

but not by an act of God or an accident.

The only way you become a member of this minority group

is by asking for it.

And only about 4% make it, you know that.

Maybe you've forgotten what you went through to join.

The physical endurance tests, the psychological evaluations.

Are you suited to be a police officer?

Can you be objective?

Will your emotions affect your job?

Can you take orders? Can you give them?

Does carrying a gun and a badge

give you a feeling of power?

Now, if you don't measure up properly

in all of those qualifications,

you don't get into this minority, Carl.

Only the best men do. The cream.

And what about those three solid months

hitting the books, going to school?

Have you forgotten your probationary period,

where you really started learning to become a policeman?

Nine long months to make sure you did learn

because if you didn't, you could still be eliminated.

And after all that, if you were still

in the handful that lasted,

then, Carl, you could say "I'm a cop."

You earned your way into this minority group

and now you're frustrated.

Well pal, join the club.

Gripe about it, that's your privilege,

but while you're sitting there on your bottom,

sucking on a drink, try to remember

why you signed on in the first place.

It's a fine profession, of all professions,

and there aren't enough to go around.

When does the trial board convene?

Monday morning.

What do you think, Joe?

Will they bounce me out?

Maybe not. If you can convince them.

Of what?

That you deserve to be a policeman

and you still want to be one.

If I can't?

You don't belong on the job.

Kind of hard on him, weren't you?

I don't figure he needs sympathy.

Maybe not.

What he needs most is time to think it out.

Yeah.

And maybe to remind himself.

Of what?

That he's a good cop.

The board found Sergeant Carl Maxwell

guilty of conduct unbecoming an officer

and of having been absent from his post and duty

without proper leave or just cause,

and suspended him without pay for a period of 60 days.