A bored Gantry finally closed his eyes and feigned he was napping.
Rolling Stone Offices, New York.
When the men finally walked into the Rolling Stone conferencing facility on the twenty-third floor, Tanner and Moxie, both twenty-eight, tech wizards, and huge rock and roll fans, were clearly impressed. Tanner was star struck as he shook hands with Alex Jaeger.
“Mr. Jaeger, this is an honor,” he said.
Alex was as excited as the young agent, but more reserved about it.
“Gentleman, mi casa es su casa,” he said with a flamboyant gesture.
The conference had been set up for a10:30 call from the East Coast. Tanner had sent a tech in earlier to remotely link to the FBI’s secure network. Bruce would be in his office at 3:30, London time.
Ordinarily the camera would follow the speaker, but in this case, the camera would be narrowly fixed on only the four men and part of the conference table. Melendez did not want Bruce knowing that Alex Jaeger was now included. Melendez would sit at the head of the table and Jaeger off to the side, off camera.
The team settled into place and the London image came up. Bruce looked surprised to see so many men sitting in on the conference.
“Already assembled your analysis team, I see,” he said.
“Yes, Robert, I thought it prudent. This will be my core team, and I see you have yours. We might as well get organized right from the start.”
“Agreed, mate. Inspector Prevot is coming online now,” Bruce said as the video screen split into two pictures. “He’s with the Police Nationale, as you may recall.”
As Inspector Prevot came into view sitting behind a desk, Bruce continued, “And your old friend, Inspector MacAlistair from Scotland Yard, is here.”
MacAlistair’s image now split the screen into three sections, with Gantry and the three FBI agents’ images in the corner of the screen.
“Are we all here?” Bruce asked. “Good, let’s begin. Raphael, I’ve briefed MacAlistair and Prevot,” Bruce said. His not using their titles clued Melendez that Bruce was all in and this was a team.
Bruce and Melendez reviewed the history of what had prompted their engagement and this call: the anonymous packages; the apparent personal effects of the deceased; the unusual sets of commonalities, including the age of the dead stars; the condensed period of deaths; the serial killer-like patterns that had emerged; and the probable autopsy and crime scene deficiencies—too numerous to dismiss.
Alex sat enthralled on the sidelines. Gantry knew he was itching to get involved and prayed he wouldn’t say a word.
Bruce said, “I thought we’d get a jump on this as well, Raphael. We’ve pulled all the digital files we have from London and Paris. We’ve also retrieved all the cold-case boxes we could find in addition to the ones I showed you before. Prevot and MacAlistair have theirs, as well. There isn’t that much, amigo; pulling these out reminded us of how antiquated our techniques were in sixties and early seventies.
“Even though this is out of the order that Mr. Elliot received the clues, I suggest we begin with the Peter Ham case, as that is the most recent and seems to have some inconsistencies,” he continued without hesitating. “Let’s first look at the crime scene photos, then we can go into the autopsy, the evidence boxes and the investigator’s files.
“As you can see from the image here, Peter Ham was found hung. He died on April 27, 1975, at the age of twenty-seven.”
Bruce pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He then delicately lifted the top of the Ham case evidence box as if he was opening an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus.
“I am now removing the police and autopsy report on this case and emptying the contents of the cold-case box,” Bruce said.
He pulled out a file folder, two spiral notebooks, and a crocodile wallet along with what looked like a bag of prescription bottles and another bag filled with brushes and combs.
“According to the police report, Ham was found hanging by a rope from a cross beam in his garage. There was a wide purplish bruise around his entire neck. Here are three more pictures of the crime scene that we will scan and send right now. Looks like a tipped-over drummer’s throne and a pool of liquid below the body—urine released as he expired,” Bruce narrated.
“The coroner’s report describes the cause of death as a combination of cerebral edema leading to a lack of drainage from the brain.”
He directed the participants to a picture of Ham’s swollen face and neck. “Cerebral hypoxia, or a lack of oxygen, is a typical cause of death in hangings. Additionally, the coroner found a fracture of the hyoid bone.”
Melendez interjected, “Cerebral edema and cerebral hypoxia are typical in hangings, but a fracture of the hyoid bone is not. As you all know, the hyoid bone is mid-neck and is seen more typically in strangulations, not hangings. It can happen, but is not typical of a suicide hanging,”
“According to the coroner,” Bruce responded, “Ham’s belly was full of alcohol. The crime scene investigators found two empty one-liter vodka bottles in the waste bins in the garage. They apparently were not retained or dusted for prints.”
Bruce then picked up the bag with the prescription bottles. “Here we have some allergy medicine, some pain reliever, sleeping pills…and Antabuse,” he said. “The prescription is drawn on the St. Albans Pharmacy, London. Dated March 2, 1975, for sixty pills, 500 mg dosage. ‘Take daily in the morning.’ There are twelve tablets left in this bottle. Antabuse, as most of you are aware, is used to treat alcoholism by creating a severe aversion to the ingestion of alcohol.”
Bruce paused for a moment.
“Hmmm…It appears that Mr. Ham may have been taking the prescription up to the morning of his death, by my count,” he said.
“Raphael, can you share the artifact that was recently delivered to Mr. Elliot by an anonymous courier?” Bruce asked.
On half of the monitor, the team read the typewritten clue: “Peter Ham did not commit suicide. He was murdered.” The matches from the Thingamajig Club were in the picture, as well. On the other half was the written prescription for Antabuse, the one Bruce had just shared in the cold-case file.
All three rooms were silent as the men stared at the evidence on the screen.
“The courier’s clue directed us to Peter Ham and this specific non sequitur related to Antabuse. Can we all agree that it is highly improbable that Ham could have ingested a large volume of alcohol and then taken his own life while under this medication?” Bruce asked. Everyone either nodded or voiced a yes.
“And in my opinion, Robert, it is unlikely that the broken hyoid bone could have come from a self-administered hanging,” Melendez added.
“Agreed,” Bruce acknowledged. “All of this would suggest that we possibly had a staged death scene, and the original determination was erroneous. Gentlemen, I am going to recommend that London Metro reopen the Peter Ham case as a murder investigation, and recommend we revisit the evidence, analysis, and interviews. This is now a live murder case.”
The energy level immediately spiked. Gantry and Alex stared at each other in disbelief. What had been originally written off as some wacko wasting their time was now the catalyst for the opening of a cold-case investigation.
Bruce then laid out the procedure for how they would use the Emerging Tech Lab in Quantico to quickly re-analyze the physical evidence using chemical isotope analysis, reconstruct the crime scene using the lab’s virtual crime scene application, and begin to harden up the commonalities in an effort to identify possible persons of interest. Melendez added that the virtual crime scene technology could prove extremely valuable in re-creating full-scale holographic images of the entire crime scene.
“Allow me to turn back to the first message that Mr. Elliot received,” Bruce said. “We’ve summarily reviewed the Ham case and agree on the way forward. Now let’s look at Brian Jones, the founder of the Rolling Stones.”
On the monitor appeared the words: “Brian Jones was murdered. It was not an accid
ent. There were others. Look and See.” The image of the “My Little One” demo label also appeared and Bruce explained its significance.
Then, in an alarming departure from what they’d just seen, a full-frame image filled the screen: Brian Jones’s body lying on the concrete pool deck, his lips dark, his clothing still wet, a fifth of whiskey next to him, an empty pint vodka bottle, drinking glasses, a pack of cigarettes, a towel, and an inhaler, the kind asthmatics use.
“This death was heavily publicized in 1969, with lots of media attention and speculation. However, the coroner’s report here states succinctly that the cause of death was ‘misadventure.’ Agent Melendez has suggested they may have meant that he’d had too much to drink.” The group snickered.
Alex rolled his eyes and whispered to Gantry, “You have to be shitting me!”
Bruce continued.
“These files also hold interviews with a number of people who were at the residence at the time of his death, most prominently Anna Wohlin, his girlfriend, who found him in the pool and tried to revive him; his housekeeper, who originally saw Jones motionless in the pool; and Frank Thorogood, a contractor who was living in the guesthouse and also present at the time. Thorogood was a subject of speculation at the time, and again more recently in 2009 as a murder suspect, but nothing was ever proven. There was another anonymous eyewitness who claimed to see Jones being held underwater by three men. But that was not considered a reliable source, and it was dismissed as conjecture.”
Bruce opened the cold-case files and removed Jones’s autopsy report and the detective’s notes, along with a number of personal effects, including cigarettes, two glasses, prescription bottles, an inhaler, brushes, a coin purse, an address book, and some loose papers.
Bruce read from the autopsy report: “The results of the thin layer chromatography analysis revealed no amphetamine, methadrine, morphine, methadrone, or isoprenaline in his system.”
Bruce paused.
“Looks like Jones was possibly drug-free at the time of his death. However, they did find a modest amount of alcohol in his blood. Apparently he did have some brandy that evening, the report notes.
“Now this is very interesting. An amphetamine-like chemical was found in his system, approximately 1720 mgs, but apparently not a true amphetamine. The chemist could not recognize this substance. The analyst must have only performed a chemical screening and did not continue to confirmation testing. Essentially this means they only confirmed what was not in his system, not what was. The analysis also noted two spots, one yellow and the other purple, probably due to staining during the chemical analysis.”
“Nothing further?” asked a surprised Melendez.
“Nothing.”
“But the apparent dosage level is huge!”
“I know, I know,” Bruce said.
As the review of the materials continued, Bruce moved to the evidence box and methodically read out its contents.
“Valium, an allergy medicine, a medi-inhaler, Andrax, and a pain medication. All these prescriptions—” he slowly spread his hands to frame the confluence of prescription medicines — “all these prescriptions are drawn on the St. Albans Pharmacy in London. The same one we saw in the Peter Ham evidence box. An unlikely coincidence for such a relatively obscure pharmacy.”
He turned to one of his men. “Hammond, check out St. Albans Pharmacy pronto and see if it is still in existence.”
Melendez said, “Robert, how has the evidence and the organic samples and test results been stored?”
“Normally, we would seal them individually in nitrogen cases. But back then they were most probably placed in jars and frozen. But the chances of this stuff still being around is low.
“Let me pause for a minute. How are we doing on time? I’d like to go through the Jimi Hendrix and Al Wilson material, agree on a way forward, and then adjourn for the day,” Bruce said. Everyone nodded in the affirmative.
“Raphael, can you take us through the clues involving Hendrix and Wilson that were delivered to Mr. Elliot as I set up the Hendrix files?”
A quick scan of the faces around the conference table revealed an intensely inquisitive group. Alex was out of the picture, but leaning forward, about to slide off his chair. Tanner and Moxie, both relatively new to this process, were nearly as focused. Gantry wasn’t even looking at Bruce; he was writing as fast as he could capture the enormous body of information. Until this point, he’d been relegated to working on commonalities and hadn’t really looked at the clues the way these veterans were.
Finally, Melendez answered Bruce’s question.
“Gentlemen, I am going to display two clues. Remember that Hendrix is already associated with the Jones clue.”
On the monitor were the words, “It didn’t stop.” Next to that was the High Live and Dirty artifact and the cocktail napkin with the note from Morrison to Hendrix.
“This clue refers to a jam session at the Scene Club in New York City that Hendrix and Morrison participated in. The cocktail napkin is a personal message to Hendrix from Morrison inviting him to record with him.
“Here’s another clue that Gantry received,” he said as the next image appeared on the monitor. “Not drug overdoses. Murder. There were others. Look and see. You will know. It didn’t stop.”
“Next to that, the Super Concert 70 artifact. This clue refers to a concert in September of 1970, headlined by Hendrix, Canned Heat—Al Wilson’s group—and Janis Joplin. As you all are now aware, Hendrix, Wilson, and Joplin all died within thirty days of that concert at the same age as Jones, twenty-seven. I have one other artifact that was also in this last package.” Melendez displayed Wilson’s unused Pan Am plane ticket to Berlin.
“Wilson was found dead the day he was scheduled to fly to Berlin for the concert.”
“Thank you, Raphael,” Bruce said and took the floor again.
“James Marshall Hendrix died on Sept 18, 1970, in Notting Hill, a residential community in London. The police report states that they received a call about a possible fatality at about 11:18 a.m. Police and an ambulance arrived at 11:30 to an open apartment door. There was no one inside, and Hendrix was dead. He had apparently been dead for hours.
“The autopsy report suggests the cause of death was asphyxiation from aspirated vomit, with large amounts of wine in his stomach and esophagus. A high dosage of barbiturate was found in his bloodstream. No injection marks on the body. It is interesting to note that there was only an average alcohol level in the blood. There was no further analysis or findings beyond the obvious one of asphyxiation,” Bruce concluded.
Two crime scene photos flashed on the monitor showing Hendrix’s body on a sofa, the head tilted back, hair and clothing apparently saturated with liquid.
“His head is tilted back?” asked Melendez. “I assume CPR was done, and this photo was taken after that?”
“No CPR is indicated in the report. He was cold when they arrived.”
“But that is not the position of someone who has been vomiting,” Melendez said. “And he looks saturated with liquid. Can you enlarge his face?”
The monitor filled with Hendrix’s face.
“Are those scratches or cuts on his nostrils?” Melendez asked.
“Let’s review the contents of the evidence box,” Bruce continued. “A notepad, cigarettes, a lighter, over-the-counter headache medication, asthma inhaler, Vesparax sleeping pills, Vitamin C, Valium and Librium,” Bruce methodically listed. He then stopped abruptly.
“Gentlemen, these prescription bottles are all drawn on the St. Albans Pharmacy, London.”
There was silence in the group. This was beyond coincidence or serendipitous commonality.
Violating their agreed ground rules, Gantry suddenly leaned into his microphone. “Gentleman, I wanted to say something sooner, but I didn’t think it was relevant.”
All eyes were now on him.
“There was a dirty little secret in the rock and roll industry at the time that was never openly d
iscussed. Some stars, friendlies, and record companies owned pharmacies during this era in order to supply pharmaceutical-grade drugs so they could avoid the law, contamination or blackmail. You never read about it or heard it discussed, but it occurred.”
“Mr. Elliot, is that true or just speculation on your part?” Bruce asked.
And then Alex jumped in: “Of course it’s true!”
The men from Europe were stunned. Who was this man? Why did he have an opinion? That question went unanswered as they all immediately refocused on the bigger picture. This case was rapidly becoming much more real and complex.
Bruce quickly addressed the pharmacy issue.
“Hammond, get back on this and run down who worked at—and who owned—the St. Albans Pharmacy!”
“Al Wilson,” Melendez said loudly, anxious to refocus the team and withdraw attention from Jaeger’s outburst. “Al Wilson, the founder of Canned Heat, was found dead in Topanga Canyon, a suburb of Los Angeles, on September 3, 1970. The autopsy revealed death by extreme barbiturate intoxication that led to cardiac arrest. No detailed investigation or autopsy was conducted. Wilson had no history of drug abuse. We have only been given an initial file from Los Angeles and are in the process of getting their people involved. There was only one crime scene photo in the file, I am displaying it now.”
“Quite a bit of ground churned around the body for a suicide. Is there any mention of a struggle?” Bruce asked.
“No.”
“Any mention of the unused plane ticket?”
“No. Apparently, it was not found on him when the police arrived. The barbiturate bottle found at the crime scene was drawn on the Carlton Pharmacy in Los Angeles. It appeared to be an open-and-shut case of suicide. No additional follow-up work done,” he added.
“Thank you, Raphael. Gentlemen, I suggest we review where we are and then call it a day. Agent Melendez can you please summarize for us? After which, we can adjourn and give our teams time to assemble and conduct their forensic analyses and prepare recommendations. We’ll regroup on Thursday.”
Bright Midnight Page 14