Bright Midnight

by Chris Formant

  “What are these, buddy?”

  Gantry sat quiet for a second. Waiting for Alex to crack a smile and admit his weird joke.

  “These are clues,” Gantry said, not knowing exactly how to start.

  “Is it a game? I’m supposed to guess what they are clues to?”

  Just then Daniel came into the room. He smiled and nodded, then sat down in a red leather and chrome chair facing Gantry and Alex. Daniel and Gantry had met several times at Alex’s gatherings, though Gantry didn’t know much about him other than he’d been involved in a successful hedge fund and made an obscene amount of money.

  “No. You’re not supposed to guess, and it isn’t a game. I’m serious. I need your opinion about something I know you’re going to dismiss at first, or at least you’ll think I’ve gone over the edge. But hear me out,” Gantry said.

  “Hey, buddy, anything for you. You know that.”

  Gantry nodded and immediately launched into his story: The packages at Marty’s and his office, the intimate contents, his talks with Dennis and Kravitz, and how it seemed someone was trying to get him to investigate the myth, or at least these particular dead stars.

  Alex and Daniel listened silently and intently.

  Gantry wanted Alex to pay particular attention to the napkin with Morrison’s note to Hendrix, the demo label for “My Little One,” and above all, the unused Pan Am ticket. As he explained his theories about the clues, he suggested that it was becoming clearly evident that someone was building a case, so to speak, from simple to complex, each clue providing intimate proof that these could be murders. To Gantry it seemed obvious that each clue revealed more and more that the person sending them was an insider of some sort.

  But Alex was more into solutions than conjecture. He wasn’t one for jigsaw puzzles. He looked at Daniel and took another drag off his cigar. He looked serious, almost contemplative. A wide and facetious smile crossed his face and he said, “Sounds like you have a crazy one on your hands.”

  Relieved, Gantry was about to continue his hypotheses when Alex added, “Did you connect the torching of Michael Jackson’s hair to these four yet?” He laughed out loud at his own joke.

  Gantry groaned under his breath and saw that Daniel wasn’t joining in with the laughter. In fact, he looked quite serious. Gantry quickly gathered up the slips of paper and put them back in his valise.

  “Thanks for your interest, Alex,” he said coldly, standing up.

  He’d half expected this reaction. This was a mistake, he thought, and maybe all this is just as ridiculous as Alex felt it was. Maybe the whole thing was a lame joke and I’m gonna wind up being incredibly embarrassed.

  Almost to the door, Gantry heard the two men arguing behind him in low voices. He had no idea what they were saying, but at this point, he didn’t really care. He was embarrassed and angry. But then Alex spoke.

  “Wait.” Alex shouted, as Daniel tried to hold him back.

  Gantry continued walking to the door.

  “No, seriously, Gantry, wait. I mean it. I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. Let’s talk some more. I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

  Gantry turned, a look of relief crossing his face as Alex smiled at him and walked him back. An irritated Daniel sat down, lips taunt, twisting his ring.

  “Sit down,” Alex said. “Let’s think about this. We don’t have anything to lose. Suppose you call the cops. I mean, if this is as serious as you obviously think it is, it’s not something for us to unravel—better yet, call the FBI.”

  Gantry hoped he wasn’t being set up for another joke.

  “No, seriously. It makes sense. If someone was trying to send messages about rock stars who died of overdoses or whatever, that were actually murdered, who else would be more qualified to do something with the evidence? The only thing that’s weird is if this guy is serious and really has something, then why not just tell you what it is? Why send vague anonymous clues? Why drag it out and make it difficult?”

  “Good question, Alex. Why make a game of it? I asked myself that same question last night. Still, I can’t shake it. These clues are things that even a die-hard fan wouldn’t know. I mean, ‘My Little One?’ Come on…he knew that I would know. I’m just saying…”

  “Of course he did…the Robert Langdon of rock,” Alex gestured as he responded now staring at Gantry.

  “The thing that is obvious,” Gantry continued, “is that the sender doesn’t want us to know who he is. Maybe he’s the one who murdered them all. Maybe he’s trying to confess. Think about it. Don’t you think thirty-eight celebrities of any kind dying at the exact same age is beyond coincidence? I used to keep track of these just for that reason, and I’ve heard all the other explanations, mostly that they were prodigies that burned themselves out in their late teens and early to their mid-twenties, so that by the time they reached twenty-seven, the drugs and stress had taken their toll. I’ve heard it all. But this is different. This guy wants my focused attention, right now.”

  “Well,” Alex chimed in, “if we assume this is real, and I use the term assume deliberately, what you’re proposing is that all of these stars were killed. They did not overdose by accident or commit suicide. That right there is a monumental story. Now, if you add the fact that they all died one way or another at the age of twenty-seven, then you truly do have a mystery on your hands— maybe one worth pursuing.”

  There was a pause in the conversation as Alex stood up and walked to one of the large, south-facing windows. The other two men sat waiting while Alex stood staring out for what seemed like ten minutes. Gantry glanced at an expressionless Daniel, his ring catching his eye, just as then Alex turned to face Gantry and Daniel.

  “Gantry, I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll go to the FBI and tell them your story, and if they think it’s worth pursuing, then you’ll have my permission to run it down. You can use the magazine’s time, and I’ll give you some expense money. At least enough time and money to see where the feds lead you or you lead them. What do you say?”

  Gantry smiled. Yes! He thanked Alex and nodded to Daniel, then turned toward the door, impatient to get started.

  “Good luck, amigo,” Alex said. “Keep me posted.”

  Gantry was exhilarated, with Alex’s words ringing in his head as he walked out…” right there is a monumental story.”

  As he exited the building, he dialed 411 and connected to the office of the Manhattan FBI. The receptionist told him he’d have to call the Academy in Quantico, Virginia. She said that the “kind of agents” he needed to talk to worked at the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia and not in New York City.

  Gantry stretched out his arm to hail a cab, just as it came to him…Melendez.

  Raphael Melendez had been the lead FBI investigator on the John Lennon murder case. Lennon’s killer, Mark David Chapman, got twenty years to life, and in 2012 he was denied parole—for the seventh time. Gantry remembered reading that Melendez had testified for Chapman’s continued incarceration at the parole board meeting. He had originally met him while on the assignment and remained in contact for a brief period after the Lennon case.

  Melendez? Doesn’t he work there? Maybe he’s still around… Thirty-three years was a long time, but he had nothing to lose by looking him up.

  Elliot Gantry’s Apartment, W23rd Street

  When Gantry returned to his apartment, he couldn’t find Melendez’s contact info, but he did find the Behavioral Analysis Unit’s main number. Before calling he wanted to do a bit of research so that he could sound reasonably intelligent, especially if he got to Melendez.

  The sunlight dimmed in his apartment and he opened the heavy curtains to allow the last bit of light to sneak its way in as he perused the BAU’s homepage:

  The Behavioral Analysis Unit is a department within the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crimes (NCAVC). The Unit rose to fame as it led the FBI in solving very high-profile serial killer cases. BAU-trained analysts are considered the investigative e
lite, and over the last twenty years have progressed from highly intuitive FBI agents to cutting edge data and forensic analytics investigators. The department applies this expertise to time-sensitive and complex crimes that typically involve violence.

  There was no mention of Raphael Melendez on the website, and of course, he might have retired. Gantry turned from the monitor, got up, and pulled out one of his favorite classic albums, carefully slid the record out, and put it on the turntable. The unusual percussion of “White Bird,” performed by It’s a Beautiful Day, started pulsating through his apartment. The song had been one of Jodi’s favorites, but now bittersweet for Gantry since the lyrics spoke of a bird needing to escape her cage.

  The tune took him back to the day he’d first spoken to Melendez. Gantry was thirty-two. Lennon’s death was a shock to the national psyche—and also to Melendez. He had interviewed him for more than two hours at a table at Central Park’s Tavern on the Green. Melendez recounted the work he’d done during the case, and Gantry was enthralled with the technical aspects of the job and with the man’s keen analytical skills. But what really stuck with him was seeing a tear running down Melendez’s cheek as he spoke. He’d lifted his linen napkin and slowly wiped his cheek, not even trying to disguise his emotions.

  Gantry didn’t know what to say—or even if anything needed to be said.

  “I love music. I loved Lennon,” Melendez had said after composing himself. “It was tragic to me…heartbreaking.” Gantry could see that he was re-living a moment that was deeply personal to him, so he put down his notepad out of respect and refrained from taking notes.

  “Agent Melendez, what you do sounds almost as creative as it is analytical.” Gantry asked to change the subject.

  What Gantry didn’t know was that Melendez was now the dean of VICAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. His critical mind and his years of experience with cold cases put him in a unique situation within the FBI. With his expertise and charming manner, he could pretty much do what he wanted, the way he wanted, and he had a test lab with the latest technology to help him do it.

  It had taken Gantry the better part of an hour to find Melendez’s direct number. He hoped he could get through on the first try, but had to settle for leaving a message.

  He got up to stretch his legs and opened the window onto Twenty-Third Street. The air was still warm, even in the early evening. He deeply breathed it in, listening to the ubiquitous taxi horns warring with each other, and practiced what he would say to the FBI agent and how he would try to jog his memory of their luncheon thirty-three years ago.

  As the first side was ending, Gantry returned to the turntable, flipped the disk over and took another swallow of his, now, room-temperature coffee. He paced anxiously, glancing across the room at the signed poster of Janis Joplin with its touching personal note. Then he stared intently at the picture of his red-headed ex-wife, Jodi, with her arm around their panting, blue-eyed sheep dog, Montana. The photo had been in a drawer for a long time, but recently he had been able to look at it again.

  He thought of how it would be sweet revenge, vindicating those incredible artists. He’d be their conduit to the truth. It would be a vindication, somehow, of his own worth.

  Shit, maybe she still has it? He suddenly thought to himself as he zoomed in on the picture. Lying beside the dog was a beat up knapsack covered with patches and flags from Gantry’s travels. Impulsively, he grabbed the phone and dialed a number he hadn’t called in years, but knew it by heart.

  “Jodi Randolph, please leave a message.” He was a little relieved that it went directly to voicemail.

  “Jodi, this is Gantry, do you still have my old knapsack. I think it has some items in it that I need for a big story I’m working on. Let me know as soon as you can.” He quickly hung up. He immediately felt awkward and stupid for being so abrupt after so many years. “I’m an idiot,” he said out loud.

  His phone rang almost as soon as he put it down. Gantry quickly picked it on the first ring. “Jodi, sorry to call…”

  “Gantry. How the hell are you? It’s Raphael Melendez returning your call.”

  “Oh, sorry. I was expecting someone else.”

  “You remember me?” Gantry said.

  “Of course. How could I forget? You and Rolling Stone. I wouldn’t miss an issue, though I haven’t seen your byline in quite some time.”

  “Well, that’s a long story. But thanks for returning my call. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Oh, man. The stories I could tell you. But then I’d have to kill you.” He laughed at the cliché. “No, really, I’ve been around the world with Magellan, eaten my own shoes and seen the worst.”

  Gantry jumped on the joke energetically, “I imagined you dealt with a lot of vicious types, sickos and God knows what else. And you’re still at it.”

  “Yep. Love it more than ever. Obviously you’re still with Alex Jaeger.”

  “Yeah, and that’s why I’m calling. I have something that is right up your alley, and I need your help.”

  “Okay, whaddya got for me?”

  Gantry’s mind started to race. How to condense all he had to tell? He didn’t know much about how the Bureau worked or how the agents went about starting an investigation, but he assumed they didn’t jump to conclusions. As a group, he’d read, they were about as serious as a stroke when it came to opening a case, cold or otherwise.

  He took a breath and plunged right in. “Are you familiar with the urban legend referred to as the Myth of 27?”

  “Yes, of course. When I was working on the Lennon case I ran across it many times—and it is just that, an urban legend. Why?” Melendez’s voice getting serious.

  “Well…” Gantry hesitated. “It might not be a myth.”

  Gantry heard a muffled groan. He quickly defended himself.

  “Agent Melendez, the myth might be true. We don’t know each other that well, but I think my reputation—and though it was brief and long ago, my interview with you would at least give me enough credibility to warrant a few minutes to explain.”

  Melendez’s silence told him this wasn’t going to be easy. However, he was after all, an investigator who specialized in cold cases—real cold cases. And this one was about as icy as they got.

  “Okay, let’s slow down a little. What makes you think it’s not a myth? I have to tell you, Gantry, there are many, many people who have already spun their wheels on this one. We get calls every month. You must know that.”

  Gantry said he did, but he quickly went on to explain how he’d kept his Dead Artists file and how he’d followed the myth for many years. And how these clues—the anonymous messages delivered in the last 24 hours, with at least two solid inside connections, had possibly unearthed a surprising pattern.

  No response. A good thing, he hoped.

  “Agent Melendez, you’ve got to admit, it’s interesting, at the very least. Think about it. There aren’t many people who know this history the way I do. You know my work, you know me a little. I read your unit’s mission statement, and this is what you do. Someone wants me to figure this out, to connect the clues and artifacts, to pursue this coincidence, if you can call it that. All these rock stars dead at age twenty-seven, all connected in one way or another through the clues I’ve been sent.”

  Gantry quickly went through the clues again, not wanting Melendez to get a word of dissent in until he’d hopefully raised his curiosity. He knew that the FBI had its priorities and strict protocol. Their bullshit receptors were finely honed and this was a long shot.

  When Gantry was finished, the phone line was silent. Then Melendez said, “Okay, Gantry, I’m going to be honest, I’m mostly listening out of respect for you. I don’t really see this panning out. I mean, after all these years, someone would have put the same things together.”

  “No—not really,” Gantry interrupted, “Think about the era they lived in. Rock and roll musicians and their followers were considered almost enemies of the state
in the U.S. and Europe. Remember Nixon and his cronies? Remember the culture during the sixties? I know you do. Hell, we had just come out of the McCarthy era not long before that. Most of the time the authorities chalked it all up to drugs and rock and roll. Sometimes they didn’t even conduct autopsies. Hell, they didn’t even know what DNA was back then, let alone know how to use it in an investiga—”

  “Gantry stop, you don’t understand the protocol with these kinds of investigations. It’s strictly by the book; no room for guesses.”

  A silent moment passed. Gantry sensed he’d have to be more aggressive, even at the risk of not fitting all of Melendez’s protocols. He took a leap.

  “How do we start? Should I come down there to Quantico and meet with you?”

  A skeptical Melendez breathed a long sigh, “Okay. Come down on Friday. I’ll e-mail you the directions and a pass for the front gate. Be here at 10:00 a.m. I have an hour—one hour. I hope this is good. See you then, I have to go.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be there.”

  Gantry hung up the phone and smiled.

  The next morning, a gray and ominous bank of clouds was blowing east, taking its drizzle along. A flood of sunlight suddenly poured into Gantry’s apartment. The more light the better, he said to himself, looking at the remnants of rain running down his window. Only this time, I’m going to shine it into the dark corners and see what bugs come crawling out.

  Gantry turned off the coffee pot and put his cup in the sink. He went to the phone and dialed Alex Jaeger’s number. When Alex picked up, Gantry immediately starting talking. “I want to remind you, Alex, that you told me to call the FBI.”

  “Gantry? What are you talking about?”

  “You told me if I called the FBI—”