Melendez said slowly, “Well, now…that may put a different spin on things.”
He liked Gantry, and even if he didn’t want to admit it, this was starting to look interesting. Maybe he would give Gantry a little leeway, just enough to check it out a bit more. Hell, he was getting close to the end of another case, and he did have eight months before his retirement. Maybe if he started a new case, he thought, he could stay on the job beyond that date.
“It would be interesting to see who is delivering these items. I’m not promising you anything, but go ahead and get those security images. There are several types of cameras, so let me know which type we’re dealing with. Some of them make it much easier to zero in on a frame at a time.
“Oh—and if you get another envelope, don’t handle it any more than you have to, and don’t open it.”
“Okay. I can probably have that footage here by next Tuesday,” Gantry said.
Melendez checked his calendar. “Tuesday would be okay. Make it around noon.”
Gantry went to bed that night exhausted but exhilarated. Vivid dreams began to crowd their way into his sleep, and he rolled and squirmed through the night with a mix of scenes from old concerts, backstage interviews, and intimate moments he’d shared with Hendrix, Wilson, Jones, and Janis…
Janis Joplin had been a force to reckon with. She’d spoken to him in the visceral language of music, but they also had cultural connections. He was nineteen and a freshman at UT, majoring in journalism. Joplin, five years older, had gone to UT, but then she left Texas. She returned in 1965 to attend Lamar College and was singing part time, driving to Austin on the weekends to play some of the small, smoky clubs there. Music and writing were Gantry’s two passions, and he liked to pretend he was working for some important magazine, reviewing rock stars. He’d go to the clubs and sit in the back nursing a Coke for hours, watching and listening to the second-rate bands on stage.
Occasionally, though, someone with real talent and power would show up out of nowhere, and he would be ecstatic, noting all the subtleties and tonalities that appealed to him. He knew instinctively when a singer or musician was going to catch on, and Janis was most definitely one of those.
He was enthralled. He noted in his journal that she had a “secret energy.” It was a raw verve that was unlike any female singer he’d ever heard. On top of that, she was sexual on stage—not in an obvious way, not just sexy, but through the energy she cast out into the audience that went way beyond musical energy. This young, brash, rough-voiced singer had caught his eye several times with a hint of a smile, nothing anyone but he would notice. He always smiled back, both intrigued and a little shy.
He wasn’t sure, but he guessed she was in her early twenties. It was unusual in those days for a woman to take over a stage so authoritatively. The industry was dominated by men; women were usually in the background or off to the side. To Gantry, Janis made the room almost smell like sex through an odd-mix of lust, power, and vulnerability.
One night when her set was over, she put the mic down on her stool and walked straight over to his table. She threw herself hard into the chair opposite his, smiled, and without saying a word snapped her fingers for a waiter. When one appeared, she handed him her glass and said, “The same. Make it two.” She kept her eyes on Gantry the whole time.
“Hello, cowboy,” Joplin purred.
The words still rang in his head; he’d never forget them. He’d been wearing his boots and one of his two Stetson beaver hats.
Within a minute the waiter returned with a tray and two heavy tumblers three-quarters filled with Southern Comfort, neat.
Janis raised her glass. Gantry followed suit quickly.
“May you always have a clean shirt, a clear conscience, and enough coins in your pocket to buy a pint,” she said, clanking her glass to his.
He laughed and took a sip of the sweet whiskey, unlike any he’d tasted before. There was no bite to it, and that became the problem, or rather, the hangover, but what a glorious hangover it had been, worth every throb, pound, and ache. He woke up the next morning in a motel room sprawled out in a bed next to Janis. Both of them were naked and uncovered, and she was still asleep.
He felt her stirring as he lay quietly, their backs lightly touching, their legs partly entwined.
She moaned, probably in as much pain as he was. The motel room was filled with the musky smell of sex, Janis’s sandalwood perfume, marijuana ash, cigarette smoke, and the sour stink of whiskey.
She ran her foot casually up his calf.
Morning sex, the best kind.
They were both in the haze of half sleep. He slowly rolled over and stroked her shoulder, then ran his hand down her side and over her ass, which was firm and without a blemish. She moaned and stirred, responding to his touch.
He pulled her thick dark hair back and kissed her neck. She stirred again, and he could feel the muscles in her back tense slightly. He slipped his hand around her waist, under her arm and up over her breasts—supple, pear shaped, and with nipples as hard and pink as tightly rolled rosebuds.
The lovemaking was sublime and raw; the smells so intense, the climax like a volcanic eruption with an anodyne ending that just drifted off. He had never made love to a woman like this before. She was like a young tiger you thought would make a great pet, but knew in a few years would grow far too strong and powerful to control.
With the memory-dream sublimely disappearing, the alarm went off, startling him. Sitting up, he remembered the aftermath of their fling. He’d gone back to see her perform every weekend that she came to Austin. And then, one day, she simply vanished. She never came back.
By the time Gantry graduated, he’d been working for Rolling Stone for three months, and by then he was hearing about her all the time. Janis Joplin, his secret memory. Dennis was the only one he had ever shared these memories with.
Getting up, he looked across the room at his one framed photo, his ex-wife, Jodi, and his beloved dog, Montana. For a split second, he let her memory invade his thoughts as well, and he immediately felt that soft but unwelcome feeling of the blues begin to pour over his shoulders. He shook his head and walked quickly to the bathroom to run his shower.
When Gantry spied the red message light blinking on his ancient answering machine, he thought ruefully that he may no longer be able to afford his relative anonymity. He was going to have to start answering his cell phone and his e-mails and paying attention to his answering machine. Hell, he might even treat himself to one of those new smartphones.
He felt motivated again. Melendez had only given him a carrot, and it dangled from the end of a long string, but he had a chance, and it was promising. Putting a face and a body to the mysterious messenger would be a game changer.
He quickly walked over to the table and pushed the play button. He was hoping for a message from Raphael, but all three were from Alex.
“Hey, buddy, it’s Alex. Where the hell are you? I didn’t have the number of your FBI contact. Hell, I don’t even remember his name, a Mexican, I think. You obviously aren’t answering your cell, or maybe you didn’t take it with you. At any rate, I have big news. Call me as soon as you get in.”
Then the second message:
“Hey, buddy. Are you back yet? You said you’d be back today. Call me. Hot news.”
The third message was a hang-up, but Gantry knew it was him.
He quickly dialed Alex.
“Hey Alex, it’s me. Yep, I forgot my cell. Left it here, and—”
“Buddy, have I got news for you. Yesterday the mail boy called my secretary. He was concerned you weren’t in. He said you’d been getting these mysterious hand-addressed manila envelopes, and he was going to drop off another one. Thought it was serious enough to tell me. I haven’t opened it, but it must be another one of the packages, so I brought it home with me. So, what do we do? What happened in Quan—”
“Don’t handle the envelope anymore,” Gantry blurted out. “Don’t open it!”
Gantry hadn’t seen Alex this excited about anything in years, with the exception of his wedding. Maybe now would be the perfect time to tell him he couldn’t make his pre-wedding dinner. He’d have to go back to Quantico if he wanted to keep his momentum going. But he was the best man, and he couldn’t be at the dinner and also visit Quantico.
“Alex, wait. Let me call Melendez. I have his cell, and he told me to call him if anything else happened. Let’s see what he says.”
“Great, I’m at home. Call me back.”
After a brief call with Melendez, Gantry called Alex back.
“Alex, we’re about to have a conference call with Melendez. We need to both hang up, and when the phone rings, pick up and we’ll all be on.”
Within a minute, Raphael, Gantry and Alex were talking. After Alex described the envelope and how it was addressed, Melendez began to tell him what to do.
“Do you have any latex gloves in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Get them. We’ll wait.”
Gantry said, “Why the gloves? There are probably already at least five sets of prints on that envelope.”
“Trust me. You want the fewest prints possible. We can identify Alex’s and the mail kid’s. There might only be a couple of others, and one of them might be from the guy we’re hoping to pick up on the surveillance video.”
“Okay. I’m back,” Alex said. “Do I open it now?”
“Yes, carefully. Don’t handle anything inside. Just turn the envelope over on a table and tell us what you find.”
Pause.
“It’s another note. It’s typed.”
He read the note aloud:
“Ron McKernan did not die of natural causes. He was murdered. It didn’t stop.”
“Anything else?” Gantry said. “Any small slips of paper or cardboard?”
“Yes. There is something that looks like maybe a piece of an album cover. It reads, ‘Recorded at the Euphoria Ballroom, San Raphael, California, July 1970. Turn on Your Love Light.’”
Alex and Gantry immediately recognized the words, they were the traditional ending to every Grateful Dead concert and had been written and performed by Ron McKernan.
“Do you know what that means?” Melendez asked.
“No, but it’s the typical ending to a Grateful Dead concert,” Gantry said.
Alex jumped in.
“Mr. Melendez,” he said. “Ron McKernan was better known as Pigpen. He and Jerry Garcia were the founding members of the band. Always a jokester, Garcia nicknamed him Pigpen after the Peanuts character because Ron was always dressed sloppily. He died in 1973 of what they said was a massive intestinal hemorrhage.”
“Is that about right, Gantry?”
“Exactly. Couldn’t have stated it better myself.” He was happy to be asked. “Oh, yeah—and Janis Joplin was there, too,” he added.
Alex said, “Yes, she and McKernan also dated for a while. In fact, she died less than ninety days later. McKernan was twenty-seven, just like Joplin and the others.”
Going back to the envelope’s contents, Alex said, “It looks like it might have been a set list, or part of one. On the back of this paper is a handwritten note. Jesus! These are lyrics or a poem or something, written to Joplin, it looks like, from McKernan.”
He read:
To J from Ron:
And you know that I believe in my lord.
I believe in everything he stands for.
I believe in my woman too.
I believe in my woman more than you, my lord.[6]
Silence on the line.
“Oh, and it looks like there is one more artifact in the envelope,” Alex continued, “a bracelet with a horned steer charm. Maybe a present from McKernan? What do you think Gantry?” he asked.
He didn’t respond.
“Let me send you guys a picture of it.”
“Okay guys, interesting artifacts,” Melendez interjected. “The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame would love this, but it’s not a murder clue. I don’t see it—yet,” he said. “But it would help if I could get that video we talked about here on Tuesday. Gantry, bring both and I’ll look at all of it. Bring all of the envelopes back.”
Gantry interrupted before Alex could speak.
“Raphael, tell me something, and be straight with me. If I bring you the surveillance footage showing someone dropping off these envelopes, and we now have these four artifacts, what can you do?”
“I’ll have to wait to answer that,” Melendez said shortly. “And then we’ll talk. I’ve got to go. Good talking to you, Mr. Jaeger.”
“Likewise. Anything I can do, just let me know.”
“Of course,” Melendez said, and hung up.
Before Gantry could say anything about the schedule, Alex said, “Wait. Fuck, wait a minute. Tuesday? That’s my pre-wedding dinner party and you’re my best man!”
Gantry knew he had to bite the bullet. “Alex, I know how important this is to you, but you did say ‘anything,’ and if I don’t strike while this iron is hot, we may never have a story. Raphael wasn’t even going to entertain the thought of spending a minute on this until I remembered the surveillance cameras. I have to get those to him immediately.”
Alex, clearly upset, paused before responding, as Gantry was one of his oldest friends. “I see…This is important…You’re right. I’ll meet you at the office tomorrow and give you this envelope. And I’ll call security now and tell them you’re coming to pick up a file with all the surveillance from the last two weeks. I think the footage is kept on a hard drive for six months and then archived. It should still be easy to get.”
Gantry couldn’t find words. “Alex, I—”
“Look, I know your heart will be there, and I know you hate these things anyway. Make sure you get down to Quantico early.”
He hung up before Gantry could respond.
Gantry set his Dead Artists folder on his coffee table and leafed to the middle to find the Ron McKernan file. He gently unfolded an old article from the 1973 New York Times.
Now he had four clues reflecting five artists, each one more intimate than the previous. He sat back, took his time reading the article, and vividly remembered the music scene in San Francisco when he arrived, with the Grateful Dead already defining a “jam band” sound that became the soundtrack for the Haight Ashbury community and for hippies across the country.
Garcia and McKernan met at an open-mic night in a nearly empty coffee house in San Francisco when McKernan walked onstage to play harmonica—blues style and a raspy voice were the perfect complement to Garcia’s sweet guitar and vocals.
Funny …Pigpen. I had completely forgotten about that until Alex mentioned it...as he read about McKernan’s kooky lifestyle, I bet the peace and love hippies freaked out! He laughed to himself.
McKernan’s seductive organ and harmonica defined the Dead’s sound for a generation of fans...perfected musicianship contrasted sharply with his disheveled appearance...tough biker demeanor and passion for Thunderbird wine...honorary Hell’s Angel.
Same old story, Gantry thought to himself, not able to handle the demands of performing.
McKernan missed rehearsals, recording sessions, and concert dates, forcing management to hire a replacement—ultimately fired—came back in a lesser capacity—almost always present for the Dead’s signature concert finale, “Turn on Your Love Light.”
McKernan’s biker lifestyle eventually caught up with him.
Gantry sat quietly, trying to make sense of all of the clues, organizing his archives to hand over to Agent Melendez, adding the McKernan and Joplin files to his package. Obviously, Janis had a special place in his heart, and though her death wasn’t among the direct clues, it was insinuated.
He stared at the cover page of an article he’d written years ago:
Joplin was part of a unique group of rock stars who were popular as much for
their attitudes as for their music. Second only to Bob Dylan and the only woman of her generation who achieved that kind of stature in a male-dominated music culture. Sadly, like so many of them, her days were cut short.
He had to smile, recalling one of her controversial feminist quotes. In her quest for liberation, which was a much different quest than that of her male peers, she often identified the first principle of rock and roll as, “singing as fucking, and fucking as liberation.”
Pulling out the articles about Janis and stacking them alongside the other four, he was overcome with a surge of emotion. This story wasn’t all he wanted. Something much more personal was driving him, something much more important. Reliving the tragedies surrounding these young artists who were so talented, so hell-bent on breaking ground and who died so young... he wanted redemption for them...for her.
His lack of sleep was catching up with him, but he couldn’t help being drawn into the Joplin article like a moth to a porch light.
On the 4th of October, 1970, Janis Joplin was staying at the Landmark Hotel in West Hollywood. When she didn’t show for a Sunset Sound recording session, her manager drove out to the hotel and recognized her unmistakable, psychedelic painted Porsche 356C in the parking lot; driver’s door ajar, lights on, engine running.
He found her lying on the floor beside her bed unresponsive.
Gantry put the article down and rubbed his eyes. Reliving it again summoned up a wave of emotions in him.
The cause of death was listed as a heroin overdose. Fourteen needle tracks attested to the medical appraisal. The most famous woman in rock & roll was dead.
He could now see, in retrospect, how prescient his interpretation of the events had really been and what the entire era had spawned over the decades that followed in all aspects of modern day life.
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