Bright Midnight

by Chris Formant

  “Granted. Please continue.”

  Melendez explained that “My Little One” was an informal Hendrix and Jones collaboration, a possible signal of things to come from them. He even logically introduced the Myth of 27 as an obvious commonality. “I understood from Gantry that the two musicians had to be very secretive about this session because they didn’t want their management people to find out,” Melendez added.

  “Gantry received another manila envelope later that evening at a New York bar—the Super Concert 70 clues, left on the table where he had just had a drink. Robert, the details of this Berlin concert and Al Wilson’s unused Pan Am ticket support our premise that our ‘courier’ collected souvenirs he could only obtain from intimate contact either with the deceased or his personal belongings. Wilson was scheduled to fly out the day he died, suggesting this came off his person,” Melendez pointed out.

  “Janis Joplin was on the bill with Hendrix and Canned Heat. Her death is connected in a number of ways, but we haven’t received any clues directly related to her—yet. There does, however, seem to be a common thread to the clues that connects all these stars to one another in specific situations. These five artifacts and typewritten notes from our courier seem to suggest a strong causal connection,” Melendez suggested.

  “That said, there is one seemingly obvious link.” Melendez paused for dramatic effect and to make sure Bruce was still listening.

  “Hendrix, Wilson, and Joplin were all dead within thirty days of that concert; and all were twenty-seven years old. Imagine if that happened today? We’d be on this like white on rice.”

  Bruce’s expression didn’t change. He merely tapped his index finger on his desk lightly, a telling sign that he remained unconvinced.

  Melendez continued with the next clue, quickly clicking on a photo, the bar napkin and the other piece which he described, as Gantry had, as part of an obscure album cover made for a jam session at the Scene in New York. He went on to describe the handwritten note on the back of the napkin from Morrison to Hendrix suggesting that they record together.

  “This napkin with its personal message was kept by either Hendrix or Morrison that night,” he said.

  There it was. Five stars possibly intimately connected.

  Bruce appeared unmoved, so Melendez deftly moved on, still wearing his courtroom persona, to review the facts.

  He began, “Jones, Wilson, and Hendrix dead, with oblique references to Joplin and Morrison. And now…Ron McKernan, with a note that read: 'Ron McKernan did not die of natural causes. He was murdered. It didn’t stop.' And another artifact that read: ‘Recorded at the Euphoria Ballroom, San Raphael, California, July 1970. Turn on Your Love Light’.

  “Joplin had walked on for a rare duet with Mckernan to end the concert. They had been lovers,” he explained. “Lastly, one final item…. What we believe is Joplin’s bracelet,” Melendez emphasized.

  “Robert, she died shortly after this concert,” he said, his voice trailing off.

  “Robert, we have been at this point together before, when a set of simple facts, our common sense, and our professional intuition introduce us to a set of probable outcomes. And sometimes those outcomes may not be what previous investigations concluded. Not that the original investigations weren’t handled well, but they didn’t have the technology we have now. I know we need much more work to confirm my hypothesis, but if I were a betting man and calculated the odds that there was an important connection between all these deaths and our courier, I’d have to take the odds that these deaths were the work of a serial killer and that either our courier is that man, or he knows who the killer is.

  “Look,” he said, almost in desperation, “think of this as five ordinary people—not rock stars, not legends—with all these things in common and their personal, intimate artifacts delivered anonymously. We both know what we would do.

  “Let me finish up with one very important case that took place near you. Maybe the most telling clue of all is this last one—Peter Ham.”

  Melendez shared the clue: Peter Ham did not commit suicide. He was murdered.

  “Was he…Badfinger?” Bruce asked.

  “Right. Look at the matchbook from the Thingamajig Club in Reading.”

  “I actually remember that place,” Bruce said. “It’s been closed for years.

  “I have to admit, Raphael, I don’t have your level of knowledge with most of these artists, but I do remember Badfinger, and I was a fan of their music.” Bruce sheepishly admitted.

  “I know you’ll remember that Ham reportedly hung himself,” Melendez said, drawing him in.

  “Yes, I do recall that. And I believe his partner did as well, some years later. There was a lot of press on that here, as there was on Hendrix and Jones. Wasn’t Ham a drunk, among other things?”

  “To the contrary, he apparently had stopped drinking. Here—” he clicked on the prescription slip— “is the other clue that was in the envelope. Dated March 2, 1975, St. Alban’s pharmacy, London. It’s for sixty tablets of Antabuse, and note the dosage for—”

  Bruce cut him off abruptly and gestured to an assistant who had been standing off to the side, out of the camera’s view. The man had apparently been making notations on a large whiteboard during their conversation. Bruce adjusted his screen so that the assistant’s work could be seen.

  Written in red were the points Melendez had been making.

  “Good morning, Agent Melendez,” the man said. “Hope you don’t mind my eavesdropping but I took the liberty of recording your points.” He turned and spotlighted the first point with a red pointer and then continued down as he narrated:

  Five deaths with implications for two others (Joplin/Morrison)

  Clues are ALL intimate. Almost assuredly someone knew or was there in each instance. Possible souvenir collection.

  All died at age 27. Three within a span of 30 days.

  All the deceased knew each other fairly well.

  All the deaths were considered overdoses or accidents (exception Ham).

  Possible previous autopsy or crime scene investigative flaws.

  Early insights suggest numerous commonalities.

  Hypothesis and next steps:

  Melendez was impressed. He complimented Bruce’s assistant.

  “Robert, focusing on Peter Ham for a moment. I asked myself, how could a man who is taking heavy doses of Antabuse be found hanged with a belly full of booze? Physically he would not have been able to do it. We both know how that drug works. And even if he could have mustered the strength, there would have been a big mess. I don’t recall any mention, but I could be mistaken?” Melendez posed the question to Bruce.

  “Yes, I believe you’re right.” Bruce was thinking about other evidence that could have been missed by local investigators.

  “Okay. Finally, we believe that we have identified the “courier,” but we haven’t found him yet. Our facial recognition analyst found a forty-five-year-old photo of one Angus Hislop, who was a tax accountant at Coopers & Lybrand in London at the time. He might still be in London, but he made the deliveries in New York City.”

  Melendez put his pen down and waited for what felt like several minutes.

  “Well, Raphael, I have to admit you’ve got my interest. I’d like to print all these documents out—notes, copy of the envelopes, slips of paper, et cetera. And I need to think through some jurisdictional issues as well.”

  Melendez felt a wave of relief.

  “And I have a question,” Bruce said.

  “Yes?”

  “How are you getting away with having a reporter work on this case?”

  “Let me just say he’s not officially working on the case. But he is going to be absolutely essential to it. The man is a walking encyclopedia of rock and roll.”

  “Right, then. Let me print these out and think about it tonight. I’ll call you Monday morning—morning my time.”

  “Thanks. And, uh—one more thing,” Melendez added, doing his best Colomb
o.

  “Yes?”

  “That last clue about Ham? It came via FedEx to Gantry’s apartment right before he left New York to come down here. That means this Hislop fellow knows where Gantry lives, and might have even known his travel plans. He knew Gantry was coming here to see me, and he apparently wanted him to have those specific Peter Ham clues at that exact time. We are doing a bug search of his apartment right now. Understandably, Gantry is concerned.”

  “Very good. Talk to you Monday. History awaits,” Bruce concluded as his image disappeared from the monitor.

  Melendez smiled and closed his laptop, stood up, turned off the lights and walked back down the hall to check on Gantry.

  Gantry had to go home. He’d been at the motel now for three days and was out of clean shirts, among other things. It was a four-hour drive back to New York, and he had to let the rental agency know he’d need the car again in a day or two. He was not looking forward to fighting the Friday afternoon traffic on I-95.

  Melendez came in.

  “Gantry, a couple updates before you leave. First, I have a follow-up call with London early on Monday. I’ll need you to come back down for that. Second, and I didn’t want to alarm you, but I sent a couple of agents out to your apartment after you left.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “To sweep for bugs. I knew you were concerned. I thought it prudent.”

  Gantry’s first feeling was one of relief, followed quickly by anger that Raphael hadn’t told him in advance, which would have relieved his men of the need, apparently, to break into his place.

  “And?”

  “They found a typical device in one of your electrical sockets. Good place for it, too. I mean, there’s never a good place to have a listening device in your house, but by using the socket, your wiring provides a perfect power source indefinitely, and the wiring can also act as a wireless network for other things.”

  “What other things?” He was trying to picture how many outlets he had in his apartment.

  “Cameras for one, maybe explosive devices.”

  “Explosives! You’re shittin’ me, right?”

  “Calm down. The team didn’t find anything. But I want you to know the bug is still there.”

  “Why didn’t they just take it out?”

  “So we can lead this guy. As long as he thinks you don’t know about it, he’ll take everything you say as gospel. Just remember it’s there before you say anything, either on the phone or otherwise. If you need to call, use your cell phone and go outside. These devices typically have a range of thirty-five feet, with good reception. Besides, as long as he thinks he can hear you, you’re safe. He’ll want to keep using it.

  “The two agents will remain out of sight and they’ll keep an eye on things. You won’t even know they’re there. Go home, clean up, take care of your business, and get back here by Monday at 6:00 a.m. Check back in Sunday night if that helps. I’ll call you if I hear from London before then. And thanks for the great work!”

  Melendez felt for Gantry—anxiety was painted all over his face—but he wasn’t worried. Gantry struck him as a fighter from the first time they’d met, during the Lennon investigation. But no one, unless he’s a seasoned agent, could go home to a house bugged by a potential serial killer without feeling both worried and invaded.

  “You okay?” Melendez asked.

  “Fine. Just peachy…” Gantry pulled his shoulders back. “See you Monday morning.”

  Elliot Gantry’s Apartment, New York

  Five hours later, Gantry pushed the key into his door lock and turned the knob gingerly, half expecting an explosion.

  He felt very worried, but he hoped he hadn’t let on to Melendez. Suddenly, every word he uttered, every phone call, every remark…everything would be monitored by the man with the Irish walking hat. At this point, regardless of what the FBI thought, he’d pretty much put a label on the guy: serial killer. Was the guy really dropping all this evidence to lead them to someone else? But that was ultimately for Melendez to figure out.

  He dropped his suitcase on the floor and poured himself a whiskey. He rarely drank hard stuff alone at home, but Chianti wasn’t going to get it done tonight. He wanted to calm down quickly, and a double of Bookers 150 proof would do the trick.

  Knowing his place was bugged, he kept quiet—even though he was alone. When he became aware that he was even keeping his breathing low, he smiled.

  Okay…okay…

  But still, it felt very odd, almost like being naked in a crowd of people who were all dressed in suits. At this moment, someone was listening, waiting to make another move.

  Gantry walked with his drink over to the bay windows. He pulled back the heavy velour curtains and looked to the street below. There sat a Crown Victoria, two men inside it. He wished he’d been given their cell numbers. He had to laugh, remembering that Melendez said he wouldn’t even know they were there.

  When the phone rang, Gantry nearly jumped out of his boots. He didn’t know whether to answer it and take his chances with a conversation, or to let it go to the recorder. He chose the recorder as safest; he didn’t want to say something the listener could pick up. He turned the volume down as low as it would go and put his ear up close.

  “Hey, mate. It’s Dennis. You’ve been gone a while, yeah? I’ve called you twice. How was it in Quantico? Give me a ring and tell me how it went.”

  Gantry noticed the machine’s red light was blinking. He wondered who else had called. No one had called his cell. He was relieved Dennis hadn’t said any more than he did, and he didn’t like hearing the reference to Quantico, though, and decided not to listen to any more messages for the time being.

  A hot bath was in order. A hot bath and a brain massage from the Doors.

  Turning on the hot water, Gantry fixated with apprehension at the room’s outlets, then eased his six-foot-two frame down into the five-foot bathtub. Jim Morrison’s haunting voice relaxed him…Take the highway to…. The hot water melted him. And the Bookers was taking effect…Take a journey to the bright midnight.[7]

  Gantry didn’t need an alarm, and felt like he never would again. He jumped out of bed at 5:30, having dreamt vividly all night of Jim Morrison still being alive and helping him solve mysteries.

  With a coffee mug in his hand he checked the window. The same Crown Victoria was down there, only this time on his side of the street.

  He decided to stretch his legs. It was not quite daylight, but he was comforted by the fact that the agents might have spent the night in their car, so he poured two more mugs of coffee to take to them.

  Walking slowly past the red-brick facade of his building, he sauntered up to the two men sitting in the black Victoria with the coffees. The streets were dead quiet this early, and nearly devoid of human activity. Down the way half a block, the early-morning grocer was the only one out, putting fruits and vegetables in two carts on the sidewalk. There was an unusual chill in the late April air.

  He tapped on the car window.

  “Morning, fellas.”

  “Good morning Mr. Elliot.” The agent rolled his window down.

  “Coffee?” Gantry held out the two cups.

  “Absolutely. Kind of you to think about us.”

  “No problem,” Gantry said—and then as he straightened up he saw a man across the street, a tall man wearing an Irish walking hat. The man glanced toward him and then quickly picked up his gait.

  “Jesus!” Gantry said.

  “Anything wrong?” The driver leaned over, on alert.

  “He’s gone,” Gantry said.

  “Who’s gone?”

  “Might be just a coincidence, but I saw a man that looked like our ‘courier’ over there. The one who probably planted the bug in my apartment.”

  “We’ll check it out,” the agent in the passenger seat said. He quickly handed Gantry the two cups. “Better go back upstairs. We’ll get back to you.” The car turned in a wide U and drove off in the direction the walker had
gone.

  Gantry beat a hasty retreat back inside. He watched for half an hour, and when he saw the two agents return he took the stairs down to the lobby —but he took the back way out.

  As he walked, he found himself breathing normally again. He liked this part of the city because it was older and not crammed with high-rises. The area had character and history and a sense of neighborhood. NYU was close by, and the streets had the vibe of a college town.

  In less than fifteen minutes, he was on his old buddy, Dennis’ block. He debated whether to wake him this early, but he didn’t want to go back to his place. He rang the buzzer and waited. No answer. He tried calling his cell. No answer.

  “Boo!” Gantry almost jumped out of his skin.

  “Sorry mate, was just going for a walk,” he turned to find Dennis, “you must have finally gotten my message. Come in. What the hell is going on?

  Gantry took a quick look down both sides of the street before going in and walked straight to the back of the shop with Dennis.

  “You wouldn’t believe what’s happening. I just got back last night from Quantico. I can’t even remember the last time we talked, I’ve been so wrapped up in this,” he said. “Got any coffee going?”

  “Of course. Sit down. You look a little pale.”

  He got them both coffees and sat down.

  “Okay, mate, the last time we talked was over a week ago when we did the Google thing on that song, ‘My Little One,’ and you lured me into your magical mystery tour of rock legends. What happened? I left you a voice mail and didn’t hear back from you.”

  “What about?”

  “I found some more information on Hendrix, personal stuff I thought you might be able to use.”

  “Really! Where?”

  “In my girlfriend’s attic.”

  “What girlfriend? You haven’t dated anyone in five years…have you?”