Bright Midnight

by Chris Formant

  “These days, you never know who’s listening,” he said.

  The car was parked at the far end of the lot near a nondescript office building about ten blocks from the Capitol building.

  The late afternoon sun was bright as she waited impatiently for him to pick up the phone. After five rings, he answered.

  “We have problems, big problems,” she said.

  A manila-tabbed file folder sat on the seat next to her, and in it were copies of some of Gantry’s papers. After the two men left, she had quickly gone through the valise.

  She’d been very disturbed by the visit—and by what she found afterward.

  “This could create the biggest shit storm you can imagine,” Greely said.

  “Calm down. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the FBI agent who was in my office today, along with a reporter from fucking Rolling Stone magazine.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. An agent from Quantico. He works on cold cases, apparently. He was looking for information about record companies from the sixties and seventies.”

  “Jesus, get a grip. You know this shit comes up every couple years. It’s just time again. I’ve seen it a dozen times. No one’s ever going to figure it out. You’re good. We’re good. It’s old news. Nobody cares—and almost nobody is left.”

  “This guy is the chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, not some Columbo-type gumshoe. The FBI has never gotten involved in this shit, never. Hell, the police never even got deeply involved. Now it looks like it’s not just the FBI, but also Scotland Yard and Paris.”

  “Okay, okay. What did he ask for?”

  “He wants record company accounting files from the late sixties and early seventies. He specifically wanted records from 1968 through 1971 from Elektra Records, the 1969 Platters, and Purple Haze Records. He was also very nosy, asking who was in that photo with Bill Wyman. The reporter kept staring at it!”

  The phone was silent. She waited, staring at the concrete pillar that blocked her view out of the parking garage. Finally, she spoke?

  “Well, what the fuck am I going to do? This is just as much your problem as mine.”

  “Those records are long gone anyway. Give him something to appease him. We’ll figure out a way to stall him. Remind him that was more than forty years ago and that it will take time. Mostly what remains is stuff for the IRS, and you only need to keep them for ten years, technically—”

  “For your information, if there is a criminal audit with the IRS, there’s not a statute of limitations!”

  “You are on your burner, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “Look, the only incriminating files that existed were destroyed a long time ago. There’s just nothing there. Calm down. I will talk to Alex and get this deflated.”

  “What about Hislop?” Greely asked. “He’s still out there somewhere.”

  Silence.

  Greely continued. “Listen, we better be right and be together on this, because even if I manage to deflect this guy temporarily, it may only delay him. These kind of guys don’t work on a timetable. We can’t afford any connection from the past to today, if you know what I mean.”

  “Of course.”

  “We have far too much invested in this. Far too much. Not just money, but everything we have and have built —”

  “You’re getting too worked up about this. There’s just nothing there. The only guy who knew anything disappeared more than fifteen years ago. We made sure of that,” he said.

  “We shoulda gotten rid of him years ago. I told you. Why did we let him ‘retire,’ if that’s what you call it? That was a real fuck-up, and now look.”

  “We paid him plenty. He can’t hurt us. We scared the living shit out of him. You forget, he had the records that could have buried us. We agreed to take care of his daughter and granddaughter for the rest of their lives. He secured the merchandise as his collateral.”

  Greely detected a slight quiver in his voice.

  “I wish I had your confidence about this. All I can say is, with what I’m looking at from the files, they’ve already formed a team with London, Paris, L.A., and San Francisco. This is not some hippie blogger stirring up ghosts.”

  The daily government employee exodus had begun, and they had to fight the thick D.C. rush-hour traffic all the way back to Quantico. Gantry, knowing he would have to return by 9:00 a.m. the next day to retrieve his valise, offered to stay over in town, but Melendez said they had too much to do back in Quantico. He would get him a car to drive back up in the morning.

  Melendez hadn’t received an update from the Hislop field agent or the TSA monitor and was getting a little anxious. “I knew I should have locked him down immediately,” he mused aloud. “But we just can’t operate like that anymore.”

  The teams also had to complete the motive analysis matrix and map out the “persons of interest” plan. That would be enough to get sign-off from the director and to mobilize their full collective resources both here and in Europe. And most important, it would provide the rationale for a judge to issue the search warrants and detainment options. It was time to get in the field. Melendez had heard and seen enough.

  Now, in the car, was the perfect time to tell Gantry that he was going to be deputized. Melendez was doing something few people in the Bureau had ever done—maybe never. He was going to deputize a reporter. A rock & roll reporter. As a senior agent, he had the full authority to do this. Of course, there was the chance that it could open up a real hornet’s nest, but he’d cross that bridge when it was time to blow it up. And according to regulations, Gantry was a prime candidate. New York was in the Quantico jurisdiction, Gantry was a recognized business leader—of a sort—and he was over twenty-one.

  “Gantry, I want to speak to you about something important.”

  “You want to deputize me. Tanner spoke to me. I’m on board,” replied a smiling Gantry.

  Melendez returned the smile. Gantry as an undercover agent, working silently under him, would be relatively untouchable by Mayflower. Perfect.

  When they got to Quantico, Gantry had his picture and fingerprints taken and within fifteen minutes, with all the prior paperwork complete, he was sworn in and deputized. He was given a shiny silver badge and an ID card.

  Gantry loved it. The fold-over wallet contained his picture ID, and on the other half, the badge was embedded into the leather. He quickly slipped it into his sport coat.

  Back in the office, Melendez put out his hand. “Partner, I want to thank you. Without your inquisitiveness and without your tenacity these cases—this story—would not have had a chance to come to light. It would have died in your mail room.”

  Gantry reddened, but the praise felt great. It’s a great day in the Bureau, he thought. One of those “string of pearls” days, as Jodi used to say.

  Early the next morning, Gantry was supplied a pool car and began his trek back to D.C. The Friday morning traffic, even at this early hour, was bumper-to-bumper.

  He arrived at Brigid Greely’s office at 9:00. As he approached Reception, he saw Greely sitting at her desk behind the glass wall. She was facing the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows with her feet propped up on the credenza behind her. No boots this time, just black heels and an airtight black dress. She was wearing a headset, chopping her arm in the air, obviously engrossed in a conversation.

  “Can you please tell Ms. Greely that Mr. Elliot is here to see her,” Gantry said to the now-familiar receptionist behind the counter.

  “Sorry, but I can’t disturb her. She’s on a conference call. You’ll have to wait.”

  Gantry glared at the woman, then took a seat on one of the red leather benches that formed an L shape around a coffee table, well within clear view of Ms. Greely’s office.

  After half an hour, she was still talking, and Gantry stood up and approached the receptionist again. “Miss, I don’t have all day. I’m afraid you’re going to have to interrupt
Ms. Greely. I have come to retrieve my valise. Can’t you just go in and get it so I can be on my way?”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Elliot. But you wouldn’t want me to lose my job now, would you? I have strict orders not to disturb Ms. Greely.” She smiled.

  The agent in Gantry woke up.

  “Sweetheart, I don’t really care if you lose your goddamn job or not. I want that valise, and I’m tired of waiting.”

  He walked up to the large, heavy glass door, pushed it open and walked into Greely’s office. The valise was still sitting next to the chair, its zipper now completely closed.

  Greely pulled her feet off the credenza and whirled around in her high-back executive chair.

  “Mr. Elliot! I’m sorry, my receptionist didn’t announce you.” She glared through the glass at the unhappy receptionist. “I’ll be right with you. Have a seat.” Gantry stared at the Bill Wyman photo again as he sat down.

  With that, she replaced the receiver and pulled off her headset.

  “You are here for your valise, I assume?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s right over here, just as you left it.”

  Not quite just, Gantry thought.

  Greely stood up and seductively walked over to the leather chair, slowly bent over and reached across to the far side, picked up the case and handed it to Gantry.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, thank you. My plane tickets are in there. Couldn’t lose those,” Gantry said.

  “No, of course not. Where are you going, if I might ask?”

  “Oh, just a quick trip to London with a friend.”

  “Really?” she said, putting her pen in her mouth nervously.

  “By the way, Agent Melendez asked me to check on how long it will take for your assistant, Ms. Quincy, to come up with those records we asked for.”

  “I’m not sure, but I will check with her later today. It was over forty years ago, and I’m not optimistic…I can’t be sure how far back our database goes or whether all paper records are retrievable. We will do our best.”

  She wasn’t going to give them shit, and he could see it in her eyes.

  In the car, he called Melendez.

  “Raphael, I just picked up my valise. Everything is in there, nothing missing. But she must have gone through it,” he said. “The files smell of her perfume.”

  “Gantry, don’t touch anything. Hold on…Tanner? When Gantry gets back, have his satchel checked for Brigid Greeley’s fingerprints.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Tanner said.

  “And I need her office phone tapped, also her cell and home phones. Get a court order for the records. This lady is not going to give us shit, that much is clear. Let’s roll it, Tanner.”

  Tanner hesitated.

  “But what reason do we give the judge? You know how hard it is under this administration to do this without—”

  “Person of vital interest. And tell him we need it yesterday.”

  “You got it, boss. And while I have you on the line, I’ve uncovered something that may be very useful.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s regarding the Ham case. Of course, we’ll know a lot more Monday, but I did some of my own research. Ham’s former girlfriend, Anne Herriot, is still alive. I got her name from a Badfinger blog that Scotland Yard sent to me. I have her number and address. As luck would have it, she married an American and now lives in New York, moved there a number of years ago. She lives alone in Brooklyn.”

  “Give me her info, I’ll go talk to her,” Gantry said.

  “Not a bad idea,” Melendez said. “Tanner, work with Gantry on this. Gantry, position it as an interview for a Rolling Stone story and see if you can get her talking.”

  “No problem,” Gantry said.

  “Oh, by the way, when you get back we need to get Alex on the line with us and populate our Motive Analysis Matrix. We’ll show you what to do.”

  Gantry made good time on the drive back to Quantico and wheeled in by 11:00 a.m. Maneuvering up to the guard house, he nonchalantly flashed his ID and badge and smiled. The guard gave him a thumbs up and smiled back.

  Gantry parked his car and strutted into the office.

  With Gantry and Alex’s help, the Bureau team had designed a simple Motive Analysis Matrix, not unlike the ones used years ago for organized-crime assessments.

  “Along the vertical are the names of each star,” Melendez explained. “On the horizontal are possible motives that could be a threat to a controlling record company owner.”

  “You mean things like legacy song or naming rights?” Gantry asked.

  “Exactly. Examples could include song or naming rights, eliminating competition, protecting investment, losing control of the talent, ‘immortalizing,’ and contract issues.”

  Melendez explained that each possible motive was given a score of one to five. A high score in a single category for all stars would indicate a likely motive. The process would be subjective, but consistency of judgment among the investigative teams would either highlight a consensus motive or de-emphasize the motive.

  Melendez asked Tanner, Gantry, and Alex to collectively complete a matrix. Tanner volunteered to be the scribe.

  “Let’s start with ‘losing control of talent,’” Tanner suggested. “How would you score Brian Jones?”

  “A five,” Gantry said. “He was out of the group and about to do his own thing. That probably did not play well with the ‘Don.’”

  Alex agreed.

  “Hendrix?”

  “Five,” Alex said quickly. “We know he was letting his contract expire and wanted to move on.”

  “Ham?”

  “Five again. He’d quit the group,” Gantry said.

  “Morrison?”

  “Another five,” Tanner said. “He wanted a new life without the Doors.”

  As the discussion continued, Joplin, Wilson, and McKernan all scored fours.

  Tanner noted all of the numbers.

  “Let’s go on to ‘eliminate the competition/protect investment.’ This could either be to eliminate a franchise threat or protect what investment had been made in the franchise,” he said.

  As Tanner went down the list, Alex or Gantry scored each star with a five. Jones threatened the investor’s investments by wanting to pull the name and start a new group. Hendrix was considering joining Jones or moving in a new direction. Ham would have been a musical threat to Hendrix and Clapton if he had launched a hard-rock group.

  One by one, Tanner went through the motive matrix, with similar results. Each star scored a four or five on each motive.

  “This is an interesting one,” Tanner said, using the chart and a laser pointer. ‘Immortalize?’” he asked.

  Alex quickly answered, “What we know in hindsight is that quite a few of the rock stars—or, rather, their estates—have made more money since they died than they did alive. We know Elvis has, but Jimi Hendrix? The Joplin estate, yes, and Morrison, yes, but I’m not sure about Ham, McKernan, Wilson, or Jones. Jones has certainly been immortalized, but I’m not sure his estate has made anything since his death.”

  Tanner added, “We also found that all of these stars had large life insurance policies, not an unusual practice; it’s a form of Key Man insurance. The only peculiarity that we uncovered was that some of these policies were substantial and the beneficiary did not appear to be the family or the record company, but apparently a third party. We are running that down as fast as we can.”

  Insurance forensics is a tedious and mind numbing archeological process, especially when the policies and documentation are not digitized. The odds of finding an old policy and payment history are extremely low. Most old records were not alphabetized, but kept by account number and typically purged every five years, unless there was a large payout.

  That is what they were banking on. By cross referencing large bank drafts from insurance companies back to the policies, they could stitch together
policy and beneficiary.

  As expected, the insurance team found a few Key Man Insurance policies written on Lloyd’s of London for amounts ranging from $500,000-$1,000,000. What was unexpected were substantial policies for specific stars written to little known companies for amounts ranging from $3-5,000,000 to the benefit of third parties like: Ascot Livery Service and Sunset Strip Traders; all apparently written within the year of their deaths.

  Later, as the matrices came back to Melendez, he was surprised by the consistency for most of the stars. There were some wider variations in the lesser-known ones like McKernan, Wilson, and Ham. But he surmised it was because of lack of local knowledge. He sent the summary results to Bruce and Prevot so they could review before the team call.

  As promised, Melendez reconvened the international team that evening and shared the results, highlighting the consistencies and deviations. He projected his findings using the Webex, a summary matrix that tabulated all scores and averages.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, can we concur that we have very strong motives within a fairly tight band?” Bruce asked the team.

  The team acknowledged affirmatively.

  Melendez took control.

  “I would like to share with you a scatter diagram that charts similar control type/ homicide motives for mob-type hits over a sixty-year period since 1950 that Quantico has previously analyzed.

  “Notice the tight common patterns. When the stakes are high enough and you have a strong controlling personality involved, we see very high and consistent scores. By the way, we have also found a high probability for repeat homicides in those cases. I will now super-impose our results on top of those.”

  The results mapped almost identically to the mob-hit patterns.

  “Because we have not been able to establish any realistic serial killer pattern, and since our consensus motive analysis clearly supports mob-hit-type serial killings consistent with previous analyses, our conclusion is that is what we have here.

  “Gantry, I now have to agree with what you said to me on our very first call.” Melendez turned to look at Gantry. “The Myth of 27 may not be a myth.”