Bright Midnight

by Chris Formant

  Gantry felt a surge of adrenaline. He felt vindicated, even though he could not have possibly imagined how far-reaching this would become. He was not only going to help finally bring justice to his heroes, but when this was over, he was going to sit back and write the story of his career. Not because Alex might make more money, and not because he needed the spotlight, but because he would be rewriting history.

  He now wanted more than ever to find out who and why.

  Gantry walked back to the conference room. He now considered it his office—and left a message for Anne Herriot.

  “Anne, my name is Gantry Elliot, I am a writer with Rolling Stone magazine. I was hoping to interview you for a story that I’m doing…”

  She called back within the hour.

  “Mr. Elliot, Anne Herriot here. I got your message.”

  “Thank you for calling me back. I was wondering if I could meet you for coffee in the next few days and chat about Peter Ham. I can come to you, if you’d like.”

  “Sure. I’m in Cobble Hill. Why don’t we meet at the Café Pedlar tomorrow? Do you know it?”

  “Best coffee in Brooklyn. Ten thirty?”

  “See you then.”

  Brooklyn, New York

  Morning

  The following morning, Gantry took the subway to Cobble Hill, a tree-lined section of Brooklyn that was home to a number of celebrities, top restaurants, and intimate cafés. It had a vibe that reminded him of Austin.

  Anne Herriot was a clear-eyed woman with a firm handshake. Once they’d met and exchanged some pleasantries, they found a free table and ordered coffee.

  “Peter and I had found a lovely cottage in Surrey, where he wanted to build his own studio to write and record songs. He was a gifted songwriter and he was such a sweet, loving man. I miss him every day,” she said.

  “Was he depressed at the time of his death?”

  “No, quite the opposite. He’d left Badfinger, as you know, and was pretty jazzed about the prospect of a solo career. Warner Brothers really wanted him. We had a child on the way. We were happy.”

  “Do you think he took his own life?” Gantry said.

  “I’ve never thought that.” She leaned over the table and gave him a direct look. “He had so much music in him—so much life. He would have been one of the greats.”

  “He was one of the greats, Anne,” Gantry responded. On an impulse, he put his hand over hers.

  Anne reached into her purse and pulled out a notebook and handed it to Gantry.

  “Mr. Elliot, I want you to have this. It was Peter’s journal. There’s no reason for me to keep it any longer. He was always working on his music, and you may find a few nuggets here for your story.”

  She handed him the small leather notebook with a faded red ribbon hanging from the bottom.

  “Thank you, Anne. I will return it, though, after I read it. Thank you so much for your time this morning.”

  Out on the sidewalk, they shook hands and said goodbye.

  On the subway back to the city, Gantry began leafing through Ham’s journal. There were lyrics to seven or eight songs with what appeared to be summary music notation above the words. One touching one was called “Grace,” to his and Anne’s unborn baby. There were random thoughts, a few lists, and a sketch of what he wanted his recording studio to look like with the specific equipment noted, and its placement. All the kinds of things you would expect to find in a journal.

  Toward the end was the only entry in capital letters, a diatribe about someone (or something?) that had stolen his money and his powerlessness against the person. Apparently he had been threatened when he said he was going to go to the authorities. Maybe he should ask Herriot what she knows, he thought.

  Later that evening he called Anne Herriot.

  “Anne, Gantry Elliot, thanks again for taking the time with me this morning and thank you for the journal. It’s a wonderful glimpse into Peter’s world. But there is one entry that seems disturbing. It is about his money being stolen and threats against him. Do you know anything about this?”

  “Yes, of course I do. Peter and I were starting a new life together. He saw virtually nothing—almost no money—with Badfinger and left because of it,” she explained.

  “What happened?”

  “They stole everything from him, and when he quit the group, they tried to force him to honor his contract, which he refused. Then he threatened to go to the police. Shortly after that, one day while I was at work, some ‘thug,’ as Peter described him, paid a visit and roughed him up a bit. He came by a few more times after that, threatening him.”

  “Did you tell the police all this after Peter died?”

  “Yes, but they insisted it was a clear-cut suicide and that it sounded like a civil issue. I told them that I thought Peter died by someone else’s hand, but they didn’t listen.”

  “Do you know who it was?” Gantry asked, realizing instantly that was a stupid question. Of course she wouldn’t.

  “No…but I remember him like yesterday.”

  Gantry made a mental note to pass this on to Tanner.

  “May I ask you a personal question about Peter?”

  Gantry took the ensuing silence as acceptance.

  “Was Peter drinking heavily at the time of his death?”

  “No, Mr. Elliot, he had given up drinking,” she said emphatically. “I was worried that he would be around alcohol so much that he wouldn’t be able to resist, but he did.”

  After he hung up, Gantry shot off a note to Tanner, copying Melendez, describing what he had uncovered. “Maybe Scotland Yard could help us probe into this more,” he suggested.

  Gantry’s reading light burned late that night, as he began to experience a feeling he hadn’t felt for many years. He was in a zone, oblivious to everything around him, laser-focused on the possible story evolving before him, the characters, the amazing investigative techniques he’d been learning about, and Melendez’s incredible mind. He could feel the data, insights, and clues coming together, inexorably moving toward a conclusion.

  He loved being a writer again.

  At 2:00 a.m. he turned off the light and went to bed. He knew he’d fly out of bed in the morning despite the fact he’d only get a few hours’ sleep. It had been a long time since he had flown first class. This would be a treat.

  Gantry took a cab to Dusty Records the next morning. Dennis was standing out front with a leather courier bag slung over his shoulder and two large suitcases at his feet.

  As the driver helped him pile the two cases in the trunk, Gantry got out.

  “Hey, mate. God, I almost forgot what you looked like, it’s been so long.”

  “I know. It’s been nothing but phones. Man, you wouldn’t believe what’s been going on. Just incredible,” he said.

  “Well, I’ve been getting the Cliff’s Notes version, but you’ll have to fill me in during the flight. It’ll be a long one, but in first class, who gives a shit? Champagne, caviar, gorgeous babes; no one does it like Branson,” he said with an enormous grin as he slammed the trunk and got into the cab.

  He turned to the driver, “JFK, Virgin.”

  “First class. Christ, it must have cost you a fortune,” Gantry said as the cab squeezed out into the rush-hour traffic.

  “Nothing but the best for my friend the investigator. Besides, it’s all a write-off. I really will be conducting business, mate. Can’t wait to see what’s in those boxes.”

  “Okay,” Gantry said. “So now…what’s up with the baby? What’s this woman’s name, anyway, and what are you going to do? Forget about the boxes for a minute.”

  “It’s Chloe. And yeah, well, I suppose a good bloke would take care of her and the baby, but to be honest, I can’t be sure it’s mine. I guess I’ll have to sort it all out when I see her. Chloe’s great, and feisty like you wouldn’t believe. But, I want to hear what’s been going on with you. Start at the beginning.”

  Gantry didn’t start quite at the beginning, but outlined the
story, filling in what Dennis didn’t know, and talking about the atmosphere at Quantico and the technology he’d seen. He described the holographic facility in detail.

  “Wow,” Dennis said. “Interesting. Very interesting…I guess anything is possible with today’s technology, social media—all that. Nothing is private anymore.”

  Gantry sensed his friend had lost interest in his story. Without saying a word, he took out his badge and held it up to Dennis.

  The visual aid caught his attention.

  “Geez, mate, where in the hell did you get that? Is that for real?” He grabbed the shiny silver shield and examined it closely.

  “Deputy? Really? You really are into this, aren’t you? So what can you do with that? Did they give you a gun, too?”

  Gantry smiled and put the wallet back in his jacket.

  “No, I didn’t get a gun. Mostly I’m supposed to interview and gather information, and I certainly can’t arrest anyone—at least, I don’t think I can.”

  Having regained Dennis’s attention, Gantry gave him more of the story, how he and Melendez had visited Hislop and how the accountant had subsequently vanished.

  “And I’m working with the San Francisco and L.A. police departments. They’ve brought in the crime scene boxes on Joplin, Wilson, and McKernan. And—I’m working with Jodi.”

  “No way! She’s still with the police department there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow. How’s that working for you?”

  “Let’s just say, I’m sittin’ here a talkin’ to you, ain’t I?”

  The two men laughed at the old-movie reference.

  As they walked through the terminal to the Virgin Airways desk, Gantry reviewed Melendez’s instructions.

  “Your mission is those boxes. Find everything you can, particularly the journal. Get in and get out.”

  Gantry worried. Had he shared too much with Dennis? The boxes they were all so eager to get their hands on were Dennis’s property, after all. Did he have the authority to requisition them? All at once his role as agent didn’t feel so cool.

  Hendrix might have talked to his shrink about his management problems, he thought. Les Perrin had just been hired two weeks before Hendrix’s death. There are connections to both the travel agencies and the pharmacies and the discovery of Hendrix’s journal referencing a visit with a psychiatrist. Look for it.

  In Quantico, Melendez was also hoping that the Hendrix boxes would turn up something valuable. He could imagine Gantry opening them in some dusty old English attic, and inside find an old journal would be the key to the case, all in Jimi Hendrix’s own handwriting. Wishful thinking?

  He had a sixth sense about some cases. They only needed one good connection, one thought, one name, place, or incident that would pull everything together and set the tumblers in place. That’s how it often was in cold cases: a ton of obtuse clues, seemingly unrelated, then, voila! One thing would turn up that would ignite the case and turn all the individual snippets into a full-blown picture.

  The oldest ones were the most difficult: unreliable witnesses, stale evidence, and the antiquated technology of the past, all combined to make re-investigation a nightmare. So why did he love it anyway? A need to solve the unsolvable?

  In Melendez’s mind, whether these murders were carried out by a godfather-type figure or were a conspiracy of management or record company executives, one thing was clear: in the rock and roll renaissance era, as Gantry often called it, the big-money artists were all expendable.

  Jones, Wilson, Hendrix, Joplin, McKernan, Ham, and Morrison were assets at one point. But as they became more and more involved in drugs and alcohol, they began to lose their edge, their voices, their judgment, and their reliability. They became liabilities, and liabilities don’t look good on a balance sheet.

  Financial liability. That’s a motive.

  Insurance money. That’s a motive.

  Melendez looked at the pieces of this puzzle.

  Greely was involved, had to be. She was the link to the management and record companies. She was key, but she wasn’t where the chain of command started. He knew in his gut that there were others, or maybe a single individual, pulling the strings.

  He began to draw small boxes connected by lines spreading out in several directions. At the top, he drew a large box and in it he wrote, “Mr. X.” It was the one completely unknown factor. Mr. X also represented a group in Melendez’s mind, and so he simply wrote under that, “Group X.” From there, he drew a straight line down to another box labeled “Greely.”

  The drawing began to look like a tree, and at the very bottom he drew boxes with each of the artists’ names in them—the roots. From their ability to generate millions of dollars of revenue, the money stream flowed upward. He needed to follow the money up from its roots to the management companies. Off to the side he depicted the facilitating travel companies, the pharmacies, the record companies, the insurance proceeds, and the banks.

  Where was Hislop in all this? How vital was he, and what did he know?

  The pieces were there, but the picture remained opaque. Staged suicides. Murder. Notes. Fragments. What about Anne Herriot? What more did she know? Hendrix’s boxes in London? The pharmacies and the links between them and the travel agencies—the Joseph Clark connection. Greely, and what she was holding back.

  They needed that one break. Look for it. It’s there somewhere.

  It was time to give Ms. Greely a call. He still hadn’t received anything he’d asked her for. She was stonewalling. He was about to pick up his phone and call her when he saw an e-mail in his inbox from Greely’s secretary, Ms. Quincy, stating she had the information he’d requested. He could have a courier pick it anytime.

  But when the courier came in later that day, instead of boxes of old files, corporate minutes, and registrations, there was an oversized manila envelope containing three plastic file folders. Each folder contained a brief history of each record company Greely had dealings with. It all looked like it had been copied from Wikipedia.

  “Is this all?” Melendez asked the courier.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Melendez punched in Greeley’s cell number.

  “Ms. Greeley, I am looking at what you sent back in response to our request. I assume this is just to get us started and that more substantial information is on its way?”

  “Agent Melendez, I’m not sure I understand. Our records staff did the best they could.”

  “Is that a joke? Ms. Greeley, let’s not play any chicken-shit games. We know what you have and don’t have in your archives,” Melendez said, raising his voice.

  “Agent Melendez, as I said, we did our best. We can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit, now can we?” she snarled.

  “Very funny, Ms. Greeley. Send me the information I’ve requested or I’ll get a court order and seize everything you’ve got, right down to the magazines in your waiting room. You have forty-eight hours; max. Am I clear?”

  “I understand, Agent Melendez,” was her only response.

  “Good.”

  Melendez called Tanner in.

  “Did they ever send us any info on Lexington Records? How about the insurance beneficiaries?” Melendez asked.

  “Not yet,” Tanner said. “By the way, the wiretaps are telling us nothing. She goes to and from work, some social life, mostly business. Are you going to get a court order?”

  “Let’s see what she does.”

  Greely left her office and walked down the street to Lafayette Park, directly across from the White House. She pulled the burner phone from her purse and hit the redial. It was answered on the first ring.

  “I just got a call from the FBI. I tried to appease them on the information request, but it didn’t work. He says he is preparing a larger request and that he’ll get a court order if we don’t comply. God knows what is in those archives.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

  The next night, there was a massive explosion in
an old business records warehouse in southeast Washington that set off a four-alarm fire. It quickly spread to adjoining buildings and took until early morning for the fire department to get under control. The news reports called it a furnace malfunction. The investigator interviewed explained that age and poor maintenance, and possibly a fuel leak, were probably the cause. The warehouse burned to the ground, and its contents were reduced to ashes.

  As promised, two days later Melendez stood in Greely’s office with a subpoena in his hand.

  Brigid Greely looked concerned.

  “Didn’t you see the news, Agent Melendez? The storage facility that burned housed all our records. All of our old records were destroyed.”

  Melendez tried to restrain his expression.

  “I was not aware, Ms. Greely. Looks like you are conveniently off the hook for the time being.”

  “I’m sorry, it looks like I can no longer help you.”

  In his car a few minutes later Melendez said, “Did you guys get all that?”

  “Yes, sir. Got shots of all the pictures in her office. Sending to Photo Forensics right now,” the agent responded. “We should have all identified by the morning.”

  “I successfully attached the micro-monitoring device,” Melendez added.

  “Yes, we’ve activated it.”

  “Good, let’s see what happens now.”

  As part of the routine background check on all the persons of interest, Tanner was finding that a number of those people were no longer living. While he noted specific family members who could be interesting to speak to for their perspectives, they were not eyewitnesses, nor did they have firsthand knowledge of events; their value was limited.

  They had arranged for an FBI forensic artist to meet with Anne Herriot to do a composite sketch from her recollection of the man she’d said had threatened Peter. They hoped to do an age-progression analysis to determine what the man could look like today. It was a long shot.

  Early in the investigation, Tanner had vetted Rolling Stone, its staff, the visitor list, and surveillance videos, etc and had not been surprised at what he’d found: minor infractions of the law, drug-related and protest arrests, and DWIs. Par for the course.