“Yes I did. So you called the FBI? What did they say?”
“I spoke to the guy who’s the top agent in his field down in Quantico. He’s into analytics, cold cases mostly. His unit—” Gantry stopped and forced himself to organize his thoughts. “His unit is perfect for this. If anyone or any group can find out what these messages are leading to, it’s them. This is what they do. You told me if they were interested I could purse this on the magazine’s dime, remember?”
Alex began thinking seriously for the first time about what could be a wild goose chase— and then a bulb the size of a klieg light cracked on above his head. He could get some real traction out of all of it. Light, as it always does, illuminates and clarifies.
While Gantry was talking about Quantico, he sensed Alex’s mind kicking into sales mode. The wheels were turning: an instant spike in readership…higher advertising revenues…
“Gantry, run with this story and call me every day. I wanna know everything that’s going on. Got it?”
Before Gantry could thank him, the line went dead.
In Alex’s apartment, the mood was also elevated. Alex walked briskly over to Daniel, who was making an omelet in the kitchen.
“What’s all the excitement about, Alex?”
“Well, let’s say that for now, I believe in the power of a great story. Gantry actually called the FBI.”
“He did?”
“Yep. I knew he would. He’s like that. And I might be able to turn this into some serious money. I know he’s trying to redeem himself. He wants to prove he’s still important and still a real journalist. And if he actually comes up with something with the FBI, well…”
“How’s that?” Daniel quickly interjected.
“He’s managed to hook up with some heavyweight agent who’s in charge of some behavioral unit or something down in Quantico. He said the guy is a genius with cold cases, and he’s going to meet with him tomorrow. This agent is actually going to listen to Gantry’s serial-killer theory.”
Daniel stared at him, “Alex, you know this is going to end up embarrassing you and the magazine? It is admirable of you to want to help Gantry and I know you feel you owe him. But Alex, get serious. Serial killers…conspiracies. Come on now. This could end very badly if you don’t nip it in the bud. Focus on us.”
Alex was taken aback by this sudden concern, but felt compelled to defend his support of Gantry.
“Well, I didn’t want to share this with him, but I’m thinking there are maybe eighty million baby boomers in the U.S. of A.”
“So what’s that got to do with dead rock stars?”
“That eighty million—give or take a million or two—were born between 1946 and 1964.”
“I still don’t see the connection.” Daniel looked at him quizzically.
Alex smiled. “How many of those eighty million people do you think read the magazine?
“Not a clue, but I’m guessing not as many as you’d like,” Daniel responded knowing where this was going.
“Right! If I could serialize this story like I did with The Bonfire of the Vanities, I could increase readership exponentially and add to the subscriber base. Think about it Daniel, our smallest demographic is men and women fifty-five plus. Out of a total circulation of over twelve million, only a million and a half are over fifty-five. Just think what I could do with a flood of boomers starting to read Stone again. Jesus! The boomers would stampede to read this!”
Alex looked at Daniel. “You’re younger, but you know this audience. These are the same people who trust you with their investments. I just want some of their money too.”
Daniel plopped Alex’s plate in front of him, but Alex was on a roll, far more interested in talking than eating.
“The Gen-Xers are wondering when the oldies radio stations will start playing music from the 1980s. Hell, all the oldies stations still cater to boomers, but we don’t. Our prime target’s is the same as television, eighteen to thirty-four. That’s half our demo, man. This is a chance to change that, or at least add to it.”
Alex was getting more excited and walked toward the living area, talking mostly to himself.
“And it’s not the subscriptions, or certainly not the stand sales, it’s those beautiful, rich advertisers. That’s where the money is!” Alex was practically licking his lips.
Daniel finally joined in. “Yeah. I see it. All you old farts loved Joplin, Morrison, Hendrix. You were raised on that music. A big story about them being killed instead of checking out with drugs would drive gobs of interest. It’s brilliant, Alex. Not only would a whole new generation be reading the magazine, you could start fielding a new universe of advertisers—AARP, Viagra, Cialis, bowling alleys, Rascal sales. The list is endless,” he said sarcastically.
Alex sat down next to him.
“Are you fucking with me?” he said. “I’m serious. This is serious money, man.”
Daniel threw his hands up in disgust. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. You’re always fucking with Gantry and saying how he’s over the hill. But here he is now; ready to take you on a wild goose chase and you’re falling for it like an infatuated teenager.”
Alex rolled his eyes as his partner continued.
“And yes, Pfizer and Viagra would be nice, so would AARP, but there are also cruise-line agencies, retirement communities, health-care plans…The list is practically endless.”
Daniel paused for affect.
“Very funny,” Alex responded defensively. “You’ll see. Remember back in 2010, when the media was trumpeting my demise because I started expanding into restaurants and concert promotion? Ha! Who’s laughing now?”
“Yes, I remember. They accused you of allowing your magazine’s success to go to your head, as I recall. It’s funny, though, back then you fired just about everyone. It almost took you under and took you years to recover.”
“Why is that so fucking funny?” Alex looked at him defiantly.
There was a long pause, as Daniel stood up and got face to face with Alex:
“Gantry had encouraged you and kept telling you what a good idea it was. And like an idiot, you believed him. Don’t make the same fucking mistake again!”
Quantico, Virginia
Early Morning
Three days later, on Friday, Gantry got up at 4:00 a.m. to prepare for the two hundred thirty-mile trip to Quantico, Virginia. He gathered the slips and pieces of paper and the five newspaper accounts he’d pulled from his Dead Artists file on the deaths of Jones, Wilson, Hendrix, Joplin, and Morrison.
Gantry left before the morning rush and drove straight through to the Quantico Marine Base, where the FBI building housing the training facilities for the BAU Academy, is located. The bright and clear day energized Gantry. During the ride through some of the most beautiful country in the U.S., he listened to his oldies station and silently sorted through the clues, rehearsing for his meeting. He knew he would only get one shot. He’d even worn his sport coat, a dark, good-for-any-occasion wool jacket, with black dress slacks. He arrived at 9:45.
Stopping at the gate, he gave the guard his name, along with the pass he’d printed out. The Marine pointed to the BAU building without speaking.
After parking, Gantry walked through the front door of the green-gray cinderblock building, expecting to see banks of computer servers and rows of people in cubicles accessing masses of information projected on giant video screens. But it was nothing like that. This looked more like the interior of a school, with long gray hallways and heavy old wooden doors leading into rooms that might well have been classrooms. He looked in both directions, but seeing no signs, he turned and started blindly walking. Suddenly a man in a dark gray suit approached him from behind.
“Mr. Elliot?”
Gantry was startled. “Yes.”
“Come with me, please. Mr. Melendez is in his office. It’s just down this hall.”
Gantry took a seat in what appeared to be a waiting room, but there was no secretary or any mag
azines. His escort left, but it felt weird as if he were the subject of investigation today. The walls were drab gray with a receptionist’s desk sans receptionist, a small lamp, phone, and an empty coffee table. The only things that could be considered decoration were three framed photos on the wall near the inner door. One was of President Obama, the other of Vice President Biden and the third, FBI Director James B. Comey.
Quite the group, he’d thought.
After a few moments, a tall Hispanic man came into the room through an inner door. Gantry recognized him immediately. He rose, smiling, and held out his hand, which Melendez shook vigorously. His hands are as big as catchers’ mitts, he thought, glancing down to his shoes as all men do when they size one another up. To his surprise, Melendez, though wearing a well-cut black suit, was also wearing cowboy boots. A good start.
“Gantry, good to see you again. Come in,” Melendez said, gesturing for him to walk ahead and be seated in the large brown leather chair facing the desk. After about three minutes of small talk, Melendez got down to business.
“So, tell me, what do you do at the magazine now?”
Gantry felt himself wanting to be more personal than he should. Hell, he knew very little about this man, but there was something about him. Still, he sensed a formality just beneath the surface.
“Can I call you Raphael?” Gantry asked.
“Of course.”
“Okay…but let me ask you something off the subject first.”
“Sure.”
“This place looks like a high school. I thought you were hot on cold cases and heavy-duty analytics. You know, all the latest techno gadgets. White walls. Humidity control. Slim, attractive assistants.”
Melendez chuckled.
“I’m very much involved in cases, but with retirement raising its ugly head right around the corner, I had to work a special deal with the Bureau. If I wanted to keep working, and believe me, I want to, they said I would have to teach here at the academy. The way I looked at it, it was very positive for me. I teach a few hours a day, three days a week, then I’m free to do what I do, which is the analytical side of it all. And I do have a state-of-the-art test lab. I have two very old cold cases that I am working on, but right now I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
“I don’t write much anymore, to be honest. I’ve found myself living in the past too much,” Gantry admitted frankly.
“What do you mean?” Melendez said. “In my day, you were the pinnacle. No one could touch your stuff and no one knew rock and roll the way you knew it.”
“I guess you’re right. I just want to, you know, get back in the game. I want to do more investigative work, solid writing, not just covering the Hall of Fame inductions and career retrospectives. I feel like I’m forty-five, and the fire still burns.”
Melendez nodded. He’d fought his own battles trying to stay significant to the Bureau.
“‘Only the shallow knows themselves,’” Melendez said, quoting Oscar Wilde. “There is always much to learn.”
“That’s true. I know a lot of folks who fit that description.”
“Yeah, think about it. When you don’t have much depth, it isn’t hard to mine the soil. Never forget your significance, your bearing. If you don’t respect what you carry in that noggin, no one else will either. Why should they care? They’re all too damned superficial.” He caught himself getting too emotional, before adding, “For me, I won’t stop doing what I do until they start throwing the dirt on my coffin.”
The two men laughed.
Gantry went with the moment. He launched into his thoughts about the case, quickly reviewing all he’d explained over the phone. He picked up his tan valise from beside his chair and pulled out the mysterious messages, lining them up in front of Melendez.
“I’m sure you know how many rock stars have died suspiciously at the age of twenty-seven, and all since 1969. We talked about that. But these five…”
“Yes, I’m aware,” Melendez said quietly. “Again, to be honest, my first inclination when you called was that this is the work of some hippie whack job, probably in his sixties like us, having LSD flashbacks and reliving his glory days at your expense. Didn’t cost the guy anything. There’s not even any postage on the envelopes.”
Gantry looked at Melendez. Did the man think that Gantry was trying to sell him? He didn’t know it, but he had just crossed a line he didn’t even know existed. And he also didn’t know how quickly an agent would shut down any process if he thought he smelled a sales pitch. Bureau agents are not motivated by someone else’s motivation, especially if they are members of the media.
Melendez didn’t want to reveal that he had a personal interest in the whole Myth of 27 legend, even if his logical mind told him to knock it off. He’d read about the so-called satanic pact, in which members of the 27 Club had supposedly signed contracts with the devil. That particular urban legend owed its roots to the blues musician Robert Johnson, who, according to the tale, heard a voice telling him to meet a large black man at a crossroads who would change his world. The man, of course, was the devil, and Johnson gave his guitar to the man, who tuned it and promptly handed it back. The payoff was that the devil owned his soul, and Johnson became an overnight guitar virtuoso.
Johnson died in 1938 at the age of twenty-seven.
But it was just one legend among many.
“Let me tell you what we do here,” Melendez said. “We find patterns and links in seemingly random facts and incidents. We always start with a hypothesis that we try to develop, and there has to be a damned good reason to start in the first place. There’s too much money and manpower at stake to chase fairy tales, and too much liability to follow wild-ass legends. I say that with all due respect to your enthusiasm about this. In fact, the way you go about investigating and writing is pretty much the same way we operate.”
“How so?”
“Who, what, where, when, and why. The five Ws. With cold cases, that process is just as important to solving a case as it is to you writing an investigative story.
“Murderers usually have very primal motives, like jealousy or anger. Multiple murderers or serial killers usually have something else driving them. To be honest, there is a possibility that you have such a thing here. But more than likely it’s just a practical joke. You are almost certainly dealing with someone who’s crazy, one way or another.”
“Okay, but all I know is that whoever might have done this had to have been at these locations in order to get possession of these items: a napkin, a demo label, and an unused airline ticket. And they knew my whereabouts. You see what I mean?”
Melendez was clearly irritated and was now standing. He began to pace.
“You have to realize the bureau doesn’t automatically jump into cold cases unless there is a preponderance of real evidence, some visible inconsistencies and an apparent motive. We follow a process, and we follow it religiously. This is not an improvisational game. There is absolutely no speculation.
“What you have here is a what, when, and where, but those are the easy parts. We know these people died, we know where they expired, and we know when–or at least you do. In very old cold cases, the challenge is the who and the how—the sixth element.”
Gantry felt his case was quickly sliding away. He wasn’t sure if he was making his points or not.
Melendez continued. “Of course there are the more, shall we say, intimate connections you’re talking about. That is a conundrum. This is just hypothetical, but if I were to work on this, one of the first things I’d do would be to look at potential commonalities, like social contacts, doctors, business ties, lifestyle ties, management connections. There are pieces of this puzzle that seem to touch each other, and these artifacts could be—and I emphasize could be—more than rock and roll memorabilia.”
Gantry waited. He suddenly felt that Melendez was convincing himself to look into the case.
“What I’m saying, Gantry, is there might be a pattern here that could s
uggest something sinister. We have some very sophisticated technology and processes; we’re able to look at data to discern statistically viable patterns. But even with all you’ve brought in, this is still just conjecture, even if whoever is sending you these clues would appear to have had access to these stars, to their homes, their belongings—access to their lives. It isn’t enough, not the way the Bureau sees it.
“I’m sorry,” Melendez went on. “I know you’ve come a long way and have convinced yourself that this is real. If you had something more tangible, or a bit more implicating, it might be worth looking into.”
Gantry slumped in his chair. Melendez had done an excellent job of priming him and then pulling the rug out from under him. What was there left to say?
Both men sat quietly for a few moments, and then Melendez stood up and reached across the desk to Gantry. They shook hands.
“Gantry, I’m sorry. I wish I could help you. I hope you understand.”
“I do, and thank you for your time, Raphael. I guess you’re right. If there was really something to this, after all this time...” Suddenly he felt tired, deflated. It was time to go. “Thanks again,” he said.
Gantry started back down the long, gray hallway, rationalizing to himself that perhaps he’d just saved himself from a real nightmare. As he approached the heavy front doors of the building and saw the Marines standing outside, he happened to glance up into the lens of a surveillance camera. He turned and saw another behind him. More along several locations down the hallway.
Gantry ran back down the hallway to Melendez’s office.
“Raphael!”
Melendez came out.
Gantry, a little out of breath, “Surveillance cameras!”
Melendez gave him a questioning look.
“Cameras,” Gantry said. “We have them all over the building at the magazine. There are several in the lobby. I never even gave it a thought. So stupid. The mail boy brings our mail up every day after he sorts it downstairs. He sits in a small room where all the mail is delivered from the post office and FedEx and UPS, but more importantly, from anyone who wants to drop something off! All of it goes into that one room first, and there are several cameras monitoring the entrance and the mail room.”
Bright Midnight Page 6