The story of Ray Manzarek and Morrison meeting on Venice Beach, when Morrison recited his haunting ‘Moonlight Drive,’ is rock legend. Within 24 months of that serendipitous meeting, the Doors’ ‘Light My Fire’ would be the number one song in the nation.
“Do you remember how huge ‘Light My Fire’ was in the summer of ’67? Even Jose Feliciano’s cover became a top hit,” Melendez enthusiastically added.
...controversies only added to Morrison’s legend, fueling record sales for the band...four smash albums in two years...quintessential leather-painted rock god...a role model for front men ever since.
“Couldn’t handle it.” Melendez said under his breath.
...Morrison’s lifestyle and heavy drinking created serious issues with record and band management. Isolated, overweight, and bearded, he left with girlfriend Pamela Courson for Paris,in an attempt to simplify his life.
“He really tried to clean up his act in Paris, didn’t he?” Melendez asked Gantry, who nodded in agreement.
...spent hours writing poetry and sipping coffee in the backdrop of Victor Hugo’s house...unfortunately began drinking heavily again.
... found dead in his bathtub on the morning of July 3. His final journal entry from the day before read like a premonition: ‘Last words, last words...out.’[5]
“A poet to the end. What a loss.” Melendez said, slowly shaking his head and turning back to Gantry. “Yep, I do have the others, but I didn’t read them over the weekend.”
“Read them,” Gantry instructed,” I figured they’d come in handy for something, even if the death reports might not be exactly correct, considering there were never any real investigations done, and only a few autopsies. At least we have the dates they died, where, and supposedly how.
“The thing is, no matter how they died, they all died at the same age, hence the Myth of 27, and that’s the ‘what’ piece of the puzzle.”
“And you think all of them were the work of a possible serial killer?”
“Exactly. And now, we have another problem,” Gantry interjected.
“What’s that?”
“He knows where I live.”
“Okay, okay, so you’re wondering just exactly what it’s going to take to get the FBI involved.”
“Right. What’s it going to take—and am I going to be the next victim?”
“Okay, slow down. Let’s go down the hall and look at the footage. If the mystery delivery guy is on that footage, and if we can identify him, we’re on. It may not be a criminal case, maybe just a nuisance, but at least we can find out what the heck he’s trying to do.”
On the way to the lab, Melendez was silent. He could tell Gantry was thinking as well, hoping against all hope they would be able to identify the mystery man. Little did Gantry know that the global data sources and astounding computing capability in Raphael’s lab would go deep into this information and highlight numerous other links.
As the two men walked, they were joined by a large man wearing a gray-blue suit. Gantry guessed he was a security agent, judging by his size and the bulge on the side of his jacket. They stopped at a door with signage that read 'Emerging Technology Lab' in bright red letters.
“Thanks, Albert, we’re fine from here,” Melendez said as he gestured for Gantry to step in.
The inner sanctum, Gantry said to himself as the door closed behind them.
The lab was a brightly lit, two-story room with a glass-enclosed server farm at one end and a huge video wall at the other. Sectioned-off glass offices around the sides on both levels were identified with signage: 'Virtual Crime Scene Technology', 'Predictive/Inferential Analytics', 'Forensic DNA Technologies', and the like. In the center was an open bullpen-type space, “the collaboration center,” as Melendez called it.
He introduced Gantry to the chief of Photo Forensics.
“Hank, this is Gantry Elliot. Hank, I know you haven’t had much time, but have you come up with anything?”
“I narrowed it down to the seventy-two-hour period you gave me, but started earlier this month to document the routine. It’s always the same. The postal service comes first to the room, where this kid takes their plastic trays filled with mail, and after that the private services like UPS and FedEx.”
Hank pointed at the monitor.
“See, here is the door where all the mail is received. In the background is the room where it’s all sorted. You can see the workers handling the mail. The building is twenty-five stories, and that means a lot of daily incoming and outgoing. Most of the deliveries are from the various mail services, but occasionally there’s an individual dropping something off. But it doesn’t happen often.”
Hank abruptly stopped the footage with a roll of his mouse. “Here, look at this guy—look at the way he walks, and how he’s dressed. See him?”
Gantry and Melendez leaned in closer. They could see a group of about eight people apparently walking to the elevators. One man extracted himself from the crowd and quickly walked over to the mailroom, dropped the package on the counter and walked away without hesitation.
“The man with the Irish walking hat and sunglasses,” Hank said. “He’s in several sets of frames. He’s appeared three times over that time period, always wearing the same chesterfield-collared, camel hair coat along with that Sherlock Holmes-style hat. But see? Always wearing gloves. They look like expensive racing gloves, maybe English, dark leather with a cinch strap to keep them tight. So no fingerprints.”
“Yeah,” Melendez said, “and probably poor facial recognition. Can you do anything with it? It’s our only lead right now.”
“It’ll take a few hours, maybe the rest of the day. We’ll have to deconstruct and then reconstruct this and then match it against our data universe. I will also use the new global Internet photo-search capability that we’re testing, and we’ll see what surfaces.”
“Fine. Call me when you get it,” Melendez said. “Good work. Thanks. Gantry, it’s getting close to quitting time. Why don’t you and I go to a little place down the road that’s quiet? We can grab a bite to eat and talk more about this.”
As they left the building, Melendez made some mental notes. The first step would be to get the Clue Management System set up so that his team and Scotland Yard could collaborate with one common data source. The U.S. Combined DNA Index System was set up to share with the UK police. Four of the deaths had happened in Europe: Hendrix, Jones, and Ham all died in or near London; Morrison died in Paris. The others died in the States.
“Let’s take my car,” Melendez said, “I’ll drop you back here later.”
The two men climbed into Melendez’s old Crown Victoria, drove down Roan Street and took a hard right on Bauer. A few miles down the road Gantry spied a large body of water and stared out the passenger window at the blue expanse.
Melendez said, “Lunga Lake.”
“Huh?”
“Lunga Lake. I see you are admiring our local fishing hole.”
“Oh, yes, I miss living near lakes. Didn’t know there was a body of water that big here on the base.”
“Oh yeah. Great fishing. Do you fish?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t done much lately,” he answered in a wistful tone.
“Well, maybe one of these days when you’re up here for a weekend, I’ll take you out. Would you like that?”
“Yes, I would like that very much. What kind of fishing?”
“Largemouth bass, black crappie, bluegill, red-ear sunfish. Where are you from, anyway, I mean originally?”
“Irving, Texas. We had plenty of good fishing around there. Later I moved to Austin and UT, and then to San Francisco with Alex in the early days, and finally Manhattan.”
“Interesting route. When’s the last time you were home?” asked Melendez.
Gantry didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get into a personal conversation, one that would likely just bring up unpleasant memories. Then again, if he was going to work with Melendez, it was inevitabl
e, especially if he wanted to work closely.
“To be honest, it’s been a long time. The last time I was there was when I met my ex-wife, Jodi. Actually, then we were just dating. I was about to graduate, and I’d just met Alex, as well. He offered me a job at the magazine, which was in San Francisco then. Jodi didn’t like the idea of moving. Her family was in Austin, but she followed me there anyway.”
“So, what happened? You got married...but now you’re not?”
The car was quiet. The big Victorias were equipped with police pursuit engines, but the interiors were well upholstered and heavily padded. Gantry kept his silence.
“I’m sorry, guess I’m getting too personal,” Melendez said. “You can see I don’t have many people around me close to my age in this place anymore. All my former colleagues are either retired or making money as security consultants.”
“No, no—that’s alright,” Gantry answered. The image of Jodi from the photo in the apartment faded as he snapped back to the present. He answered elliptically. “It’s the same way at my office. The majority of the staff is under thirty.”
He continued, “Things worked pretty well in San Francisco. I got my start. Jodi got a job in the forensics department at the San Francisco PD, and it all went well until Alex told us one day that we were all moving to New York. By then her job was more complicated. She was experimenting with more biotech-type work, and couldn’t leave the Bay area.
“Biotech and forensics? My kind of woman,” Melendez said as he smiled.
“We tried having a long-distance marriage. Eventually my involvement with the magazine and my constant traveling put a real crimp in our relationship, and we divorced. I didn’t want it, but I knew it was best for her, and I just couldn’t stop working. I still love it. But I guess you know what that’s like.”
“Yeah, I get that. We’re a lot alike. But, I’ve never been divorced. Been married for forty-two years to the same woman, if you can believe that,” Melendez said proudly.
“I’m impressed. Really, I am. You must love her very much.”
“I do.”
Gantry scanned the horizon as they approached a set of one-story buildings: a small gas station, a convenience store, and a farmers’ supply on one side, on the other, a down-at-heel pharmacy and a bar—with a hitching post. Next to that was a post office, and next a walk-up burger joint with a dead neon sign on a rusted steel pole that read: The Busy B.
“I thought you might like this place. I stop by here on occasion,” Melendez said with a grin.
“It’s the closest thing to a cowboy bar around here. Actually, it’s not a cowboy bar as much as it is a rancher bar, as in thoroughbred-breeding ranchers. It’s quiet, but the food is decent, and we can talk. It’s also reasonable—as you probably already guessed.”
The men got out and walked into the cool, dim barroom.
“Hey, Raphael, how’re you doin?” the bartender said to the familiar customer.
Clear with a Chance of Rain was the name of the bar, taken from the name of the owner’s prized thoroughbred. A large picture of the magnificent animal was framed in gold above the bar. The room was more ornate and elegant than it deserved to be, given its location, but it did good business between the Marine officers and the FBI agents just ten miles up the road.
They took a booth in the back.
“Jacob, two Bushmills. No ice. Doubles,” Melendez called out. On nearly every wall of the bar were mementos, pictures and pieces of tack. Gantry found it very comfortable.
When the two drinks arrived, Melendez told the bartender to run two tabs. Then he toasted Gantry and they got down to business.
“Okay. This is where the rubber meets the road,” Melendez said. “Here’s the deal. With my situation at the Bureau, I only have limited time to work on any case, and you see the kids that work with me? Wicked smart, but they don’t have what you have up here,” he said, pointing to his head.
“Does that mean you’re taking the case?”
“Maybe, depending on what we find on the video. I can work on one cold case at a time, provided I handle my three classes of rookies each week. That’s easy enough, and I can have pretty much free rein of the facilities and some personnel. However, I can’t do everything. And we’ll have jurisdictional issues. We may have to team with London and Paris.”
Melendez didn’t reveal everything that he was thinking. And he needed to ID the deliveryman before he made his next move. If the identity panned out, he’d be all in.
Melendez leaned in.
“Ever since you called me about this, I have been remembering some of the stories I’d heard agents talking about when I first joined the Bureau. They revealed that when some famous rock stars died in Europe, the investigation and autopsies were pretty suspect, and cases were closed quickly. I always had a suspicion that it was the same in the U.S., but had no reason to look into it since it wasn’t relevant to my job. I had completely forgotten about all that until you called last week.”
“Do you remember which musicians?” Gantry asked.
“No,” replied Melendez. “I think I already told you last week, just based on my instincts, even though this is a long shot, we could be dealing with someone who isn’t just flat-out crazy, but also very smart. We’ll see what Hank uncovers. That will be key, okay? But that envelope and the prescription you brought in today for Peter Ham doesn’t compute.”
“How do you mean?” Gantry queried.
“Ham taking Antabuse, and the officials finding all that alcohol in his system, would be like finding a person who had a severe peanut allergy dead with a stomach full of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. In my business, that would look like a ‘staged’ death scene.
“Staged?”
“It means it was made to look like a suicide hanging, but it wasn’t. The clue you got infers that the death scene could not have happened as was officially reported. I am sure Scotland Yard would conclude the same thing. Your ex-wife Jodi probably would as well.
“What I’m saying is, based on that one hypothesis, we should at least have a conversation with Scotland Yard. If we can identify this guy in the Irish walking hat, and if we can find him, then we can see what is going on. He might just be a messenger. That one clue that he wanted you to have before you came here is very telling. He knew what we would conclude,” Melendez added.
“Most serial killers have strong primal emotions like jealousy, anger, and the desire for revenge.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” Gantry said. “What I don’t understand is why all this is just now surfacing, after forty years.”
“I’m not sure either,” Melendez admitted. “However, I do know we can just about rule out a woman—there are not many female serial killers. For a host of reasons, they usually don’t fit the profile. It’s similar to the fact that most women don’t commit suicide by shooting themselves. It’s too messy, too violent. They prefer other methods, like poison, that kind of thing. Men, on the other hand, will do just about anything if they’re truly motivated. Whatever is quickest.
In any case, I’m going to put you up in town tonight at the Wingate. It’s only a three-star, but my expense account isn’t what it used to be. Tomorrow morning, we get started, provided Hank has something concrete.”
Gantry grinned, raised his glass, and the two men clinked them together without a toast and finished them simultaneously.
“Thank you, Raphael.”
The following morning Gantry rolled out of the rock-hard hotel bed with a shot of adrenalin. He couldn’t wait to see if Hank had identified the messenger, and he was eager to start working with Raphael.
He made coffee before jumping into the shower. Drying off, he heard the phone ring.
“Ready to go?”
“Almost,” Gantry said, stretching the truth considerably. “Just gotta get my boots on.”
Gantry smiled when he slid into the Crown Victoria and saw Melendez’s coffee cup in the cup holder. He put his own cup in his holder
. As the long black four-door loped through the countryside, Gantry took a swallow of his coffee and asked Melendez, “Can you tell me more about serial killers? If this guy could be the killer…he knows where I live and what I’m doing,” he said, his voice slightly quivering.
Melendez quickly pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped the car.
“Give me your cell phone,” he said.
“What?”
“Your cell, man. If this guy knew you were coming here, it might be bugged.”
“No, I don’t think so. It rarely comes out of my pocket.”
“Give me your phone.”
Gantry handed Melendez the phone. Mendez promptly pulled the back off, slipped out the battery and scanned the interior.
“Good, nothing in there. Might be a bug in your apartment, though,” he said, pulling back onto the highway. Gantry fumbled his phone back together.
“So…tell me about serial killers.”
“The FBI defines a serial killer a little differently than other law enforcement. We say that a series of two or more murders, committed as separate events, usually, but not always by one offender acting alone, constitutes a serial killing. Some of the killings involve sexual contact, but for us, we think the motives are usually, like I said before, anger, rage, and desire for revenge. There could be a strong narcissistic component.
“The thing that stands out in this case is that the victims have something fundamentally in common—age and rock and roll. But there are probably a number of things we haven’t considered yet. That’s where you’ll come in. You’re the source for the private, little-known stuff.”
“Is serial killing the same as mass murder?”
“No. However, cases of extended bouts of sequential killings over periods of months, with no apparent cooling-off period, have caused some in the Bureau to suggest that there might be a hybrid category, a spree-serial killer.” Gantry silently stared at him.
Melendez continued, “Serial killers share certain characteristics generally, like having average or below-average IQs, even though they are perceived as smart and sometimes actually are. They have trouble holding jobs. They often seem normal, with families. They were often abused as children, physically or emotionally. Sometimes there are odd similarities, like bed wetting, fascination with fire, that kind of thing.”
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