The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology

by Raymond Benson

  “Spike Berenger, what brings you down to our beautiful neck of the woods?”

  “Hello Mackie, how’s it going?” Berenger greeted the uniformed officer.

  “Can’t complain too much. Hey, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to give you a call.”

  “What’s on your mind, Mackie?”

  “Can you get tickets to the Stones? They sold out in, what, sixty seconds?”

  Berenger smiled. “Sorry, Mackie, I can’t get no satisfaction. Their manager is pissed at me for something, I don’t know what. I’m sure you can get a good deal outside the venue the night of the show, though.”

  “Oh yeah, for about three times the original price of the tickets!”

  “So, just flash ‘em your badge and tell ‘em to give ‘em up for face value.”

  The sergeant shrugged. “That’s not a bad idea. So what can we do for Rockin’ Security this morning?”

  “Is McTiernan here?”

  “Yeah, he came in just a few minutes ago. Is he expecting you?”

  “No, but Adrian Duncan’s lawyer is supposed to meet me here and I think McTiernan is expecting him.”

  “He’s already here. I sent him back two minutes ago.” The sergeant buzzed the door so that Berenger could walk through. “You know where it is?”

  “I’ll find him. See you later, Mackie.”

  Berenger moved past the administrative offices and into the detectives’ bullpen, a room that resembled every police squad HQ on television and in the movies. A half-dozen of New York’s finest occupied just as many desks. The noise level was high because everyone had to speak loudly in order to be heard over the others. Uniformed officers moved in and out, picking up and dropping paperwork, while the plainclothes detectives shouted into phones or called across the room to somebody. Berenger had considered joining the police force after he got out of the army. He was glad he didn’t—he couldn’t have taken such a claustrophobic atmosphere with no privacy whatsoever.

  He spotted Derek Patterson sitting beside McTiernan’s desk. Patterson waved at him and McTiernan scowled. If the Incredible Hulk had been white and sported a red crewcut, he’d have looked like Billy McTiernan. The guy was as bulky as a toad and had the sense of humor of one as well. He also didn’t like rock ‘n’ roll, which Berenger considered to be a serious social disability.

  Patterson stood and shook Berenger’s hand. “Hi Spike,” he said. “Do you know Detective—?”

  “Sure, Billy and I go way back,” Berenger said. McTiernan stayed in his seat but held out his hand for Berenger to squeeze.

  “How you doing, Berenger?” McTiernan asked in the low, gravelly voice that Berenger liked to make fun of. “I see you haven’t got your fucking hair cut yet.”

  “And I see you must’ve just mowed yours, detective,” Berenger replied.

  McTiernan ran his hand over the flat top and grinned. “Hey, it feels good when the goddamned wife scratches the top of my head.”

  “And then you sit like a good boy?”

  “Funny. I see you haven’t changed, Berenger. You’re still a goddamned hippie. Come on, let’s go someplace where we can talk in private.”

  McTiernan heaved up his massive frame with a grunt and led the two men out of the bullpen and into one of the bare interrogation rooms furnished with only a table and three chairs.

  “So, I understand you’re working for the fucking defense, is that right, Berenger?” McTiernan asked as he shut the door. He sat in the single chair on one side of the table while Berenger and Patterson took seats across from him.

  “That’s correct, lieutenant.”

  Patterson spoke up. “As I said on the phone, we’ve come to talk to you about Mister Duncan. It’s going to take a while for the DA to supply me with the evidence that’ll be used to prosecute my client. We were hoping that you’d give us an idea of what we’re facing.”

  “I don’t have to tell you guys jack shit, you know that, don’t you?” McTiernan said.

  “We’ll find out eventually once the DA—”

  “I know, I know. I just don’t know if I want to help you. The guy’s a major scumbag and he murdered his own father. And I could care less about the victim being some famous fucking rock star. I’m not into that crap.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Berenger said. “Your favorite singer is Raffi.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  McTiernan glared at Berenger and then addressed Patterson. “Look, we’ve got an ironclad case against Adrian Duncan. I’ll tell you what we’ve already told the press. Duncan’s fingerprints were all over Flame’s office and in the bedroom where the crime occurred. He was seen fleeing from the townhouse by two witnesses, before the discovery of the body.”

  “So?” Berenger suggested. “Adrian was Flame’s son. He’s probably been to Flame’s place a zillion times and left fingerprints. Maybe he was in a hurry to get home. There’s plenty of doubt there.”

  McTiernan looked at Berenger and said, “Yeah? Well we also have several witnesses that saw the suspect in a heated argument with the deceased earlier in the evening. Before Flame’s concert. And even more witnesses observed the suspect in a very agitated state backstage after the concert.”

  “Could have been a typical father and son spat,” Berenger said.

  “And then there’s the post-mortem,” McTiernan continued.

  “I’m very interested in hearing about that,” Patterson commented.

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you fucking everything, but suffice it to say that it proves that Peter Flame didn’t commit suicide. He was already dead before he was hung from the ceiling. Duncan strangled him prior to that, then strung him up and tried to make it look like Flame had killed himself. I’m not going to list all the goddamned pieces of evidence that confirm it. We know a staged crime scene when we see one. And this one was definitely staged.”

  Berenger had figured as much but he wasn’t going to let on. “At first you were fooled, though, isn’t that right? Didn’t you believe Flame had committed suicide?”

  McTiernan shrugged. “At first glance, sure. Anyone would. But we’ve got a lot of experience with shit like this. Lots of things struck me as just-plain-wrong about the crime scene. The next day when I was looking at the photographs it hit me. The post-mortem confirmed it.”

  “You did a good job keeping it a secret,” Patterson said.

  “Yeah. We didn’t want the killer to bolt so we conducted our investigation quietly and privately. We had our eyes on Adrian Duncan within twenty-four hours of the murder. Given the history between the father and son, it didn’t take a leap of faith to conclude that he was the prime suspect.”

  “Weren’t there other fingerprints at the townhouse?” Berenger asked.

  “Sure! Lots of ‘em. But Duncan’s just happened to be in all the right places, or rather, in all the wrong places.”

  Berenger rubbed his beard and asked, “I understand you’ve got something linking Adrian to the Jimmys?”

  McTiernan smiled. “I think I’ll let the DA give you that. If you ask me, it just proves that Duncan was up to no good.”

  Patterson looked at Berenger. The lawyer didn’t have to say anything for Berenger to know what the guy was thinking. This was going to be harder than they thought.

  “But just ‘cause I’m a nice guy,” McTiernan said, “I’ll share with you the capper. The piece of evidence that’s going to make the case.”

  “What’s that?” Berenger asked.

  “Flame was clutching something in his hand when we found him. It turned out to be one of those color-coded, numbered backstage passes that they give out to people for the after-show Meet ‘n’ Greet. You know, you peel off the back and stick ‘em on your shirt or jacket.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The tour manager keeps a record of what number pass is given to who.” McTiernan raised his eyebrows. “The one in Flame’s grip was the pass that had been assigned to Adrian Duncan.”

/>   6

  Jail House Rock

  (performed by Elvis Presley)

  The next port of call for Berenger and Patterson was Rikers Island. Berenger had been there on numerous occasions and it never failed to depress him. By far the largest penal institution in the United States, Rikers usually hosted 15,000 prisoners on any given day. The island, officially a part of the Bronx but accessible only from Queens, was half the size of Central Park and was the location of ten separate jails, each one of varying security.

  As Patterson’s Lexus left Queens and crossed the Rikers Island Bridge, with LaGuardia Airport’s runways looming uncomfortably close on the right, Berenger was once again amazed by how much of a small town the corrections facilities had become. Schools, chapels and mosques, ball fields, grocery stores, medical clinics, barbershops, a bus depot, a laundry, a bakery, a power plant, and other amenities now stood amongst the cell blocks, some of which had been constructed as far back as the 1930s. The Rock, as it was unofficially known, also went by the moniker “Land of Darkness.” Berenger thought the latter term was more appropriate. Rikers was a place where that elusive thing called Hope had no haven.

  The car passed the sign that proclaimed that Rikers Island was “Home of New York’s Boldest” and Berenger wondered what that was supposed to mean. Boldest criminals? Boldest guards? Boldest wardens? They drove along a narrow two-lane road lined by the cellblocks—aging brick structures as well as high-tech modern ones—and twelve-foot high fences crowned by razor-sharp barbed wire. Eventually they came to the commissioner’s office, a yellow trailer that was the first stop in coordinating visits.

  “I take it Duncan’s in NIC?” Berenger asked.

  “That’s right, it’s where they keep all the prisoners requiring protective custody,” Patterson replied. NIC was the North Infirmary Command, which consisted of two buildings. One of these was the original Rikers Island Hospital, built in 1932. Housing approximately five hundred inmates, NIC was also the dormitory for inmates with AIDS. Berenger knew it was a better spot to be than one of the general population buildings, such as C-95, where mostly young toughs resided. NIC was where they put the “Maytags”—what they called the inmates considered too soft to be in the dangerous general areas. “They’re washing socks,” was how the protective custody prisoners were described in other cellblocks on the island.

  After Patterson parked the Lexus, they went inside and immediately felt the oppressive silence. For some reason, NIC was always quiet, whereas the other cellblocks reverberated noisily like high school gymnasiums. Perhaps it was because more of the inmates in NIC were in solitary confinement, protective custody, or were too sick to make a sound.

  The two men filled out the paperwork, declared they had no weapons, and were admitted into a room manned by three guards. A couple of prisoners sat at separate tables, speaking to their respective lawyers. Another was having a tearful reunion with his mother.

  Berenger and Patterson sat at the only empty table and waited five minutes before the steel door at the end of the room squealed and opened. An officer led Adrian Duncan, dressed in standard issue prison overalls, to the table. Berenger noted that he appeared tired and defeated.

  “How are you, Adrian?” Patterson asked.

  “Okay,” Duncan replied. He looked at Berenger and wrinkled his brow.

  “Adrian, this is Spike Berenger,” Patterson said. “He’s a private investigator that we’ve hired to help us with your case.”

  Berenger leaned over the table to shake Duncan’s hand.

  “I know you, don’t I?” Duncan asked.

  “We met many years ago,” Berenger answered. “In the eighties.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Weren’t you a manager for a band or something?”

  “Back then, yeah.”

  “How are they treating you?” Patterson asked.

  Duncan shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I’m pretty much alone all the time. I’m going stir crazy, to tell you the truth. There’s one guard that’s a real prick, but he’s that way to everybody.” He looked out the barred window onto a field, where teams of bulky African-American and Hispanic inmates played ball. “At least I don’t have to go out there with them.”

  “We’ve made the motion for a speedy trial,” Patterson said. “I’m sorry about the bail thing, it’s just the way the DA wants to play it. Besides, you do realize you’re safer here than anywhere else?”

  Duncan barely nodded his head. “There are even some Flame fans in here that would like to get their hands on me.” He slumped in his chair and sighed.

  “Mister Berenger would like to ask you some questions. All right?”

  Duncan rolled his eyes and said, “Sure. I don’t know what good it’ll do.”

  Berenger had always possessed fairly good intuition when it came to interrogating suspects but he had to be face to face with them.

  “Adrian, I’d like you to look at me,” he said.

  Duncan glanced up. “Yeah?”

  “Tell me the truth. Did you kill your father?”

  Duncan frowned. “Fuck no.” He looked at Patterson and said, “What the hell is this? You bring this guy in here to ask me that? You’re my lawyer, you’re supposed to believe I’m innocent.”

  Berenger answered, “Adrian, I had to ask you before I begin, it’s just the way I work. Chill out. I’m here to help you.”

  Duncan waved at him, indicating that he was ready to continue.

  “Why do you think the police suspected you?” Berenger asked.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I want to hear what you think.”

  Duncan looked away and mumbled something.

  “Excuse me?” Berenger asked. He was sure that the young man had cursed at him.

  “Nothing,” Duncan said. “Look, what’s the use? They’ve got their evidence and they’re gonna crucify me because it’s convenient for them. I mean, I understand why they picked me. I was the obvious suspect, you know? Everyone knew my father and I hated each other.”

  “Adrian, your mother asked me to help,” Berenger said. “I know this is a shitty place to be and I know you feel persecuted. But really, if you talk to me you’ll go a long way toward helping yourself get the hell out of here. It’s up to you. If you want to stay here and rot, be my guest.”

  Duncan was quiet for a moment as all this sunk in. Finally, he looked at Berenger and asked, “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about the relationship between you and your father. Whatever comes to mind.”

  The prisoner reflected on this and said, “When I think of my father, all I remember are the fights. We were fighting since I crawled out of the crib. He hated me. He didn’t like me because he didn’t like my mother anymore. I don’t think he ever once told me he loved me, or anything like that. Ever. Even when I was a kid. He never supported anything I ever did. He never came to the school for parent/teacher talks, he never saw me perform in the band, he didn’t want me to become a musician… The man is a first class bastard. Er, he was.”

  There wasn’t much Berenger could say to that. “Tell me about the night of the murder. I know you’ve told the cops, you told Mister Patterson here, now please tell me. I need to hear it from you.”

  “My mother was in town from LA. My dad was playing his final show of the current tour at the Beacon Theater and his manager sent me a couple of tickets.”

  “Al Patton?”

  “Yeah, him. He’s a real piece of work, that guy. What an asshole. Anyway, I think he always had the hots for my mom, and he knew she was in town or something. So he sent over a couple of tickets and backstage passes. I didn’t want to go but mom thought we should act like we cared. So we went. What a mistake that was.”

  “What happened at the theater?”

  “Well, we got there early and went backstage. Dad had finished sound check and was in his dressing room with that weird girlfriend of his, Brenda. She made some excuse to leave us all alone for a big family reunion, you know, s
o it was just mom, dad, and me. So he talks to mom about what she’s doing in LA and all, and he seems pretty friendly. But he doesn’t even look at me. When I try to talk to him he just changes the subject, like I’m some kind of bug. Finally mom picked up on what was going on and she told him to please talk to me. She stepped out of the room so dad and I were alone.

  “I asked him for the second or third time if he would do me a favor, a father to son thing, you know? There’s this album he recorded in the seventies that he never released. I thought if he’d give me the rights to it, I could remix it, you know, as a kind of techno-dance thing. I could produce it and release it myself. It would be just the thing to get me started as a record producer. Hell, it would probably set up my mom and me for the rest of our lives. But no, his response was the same as it always was. Back in, what, 1987, I think, I asked him to help me get a record deal for my own band. He wouldn’t do it. He kept saying if I was going to play music, I had to do it on my own. And I knew that. Hell, I was really young then, but I knew I had to make it on my own, on the strength of my own material. But he could have at the very least helped me a little. He could have made a phone call or two. He could have put in a good word here or there. Hell, he’s so goddamn rich that he could have paid for the studio time and never batted an eye. You know, as a gift. But he didn’t do it. I ended up spending my entire life’s savings to make that record, do you remember it? It came out in 1989.”

  “I do,” Berenger said. He could see that Duncan was in denial about the album. It had not been a good one. It suffered the same fate as the products made by many other famous rock stars’ children—they were always unfavorably compared to the parents’ work.

  “Anyway, we practically got into a fist fight there in the dressing room. He started yelling at me to get off my ass, stop being a lazy bum, that kind of shit. As if he had any idea what I do every day.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “So I left the dressing room. I found my mom and wanted to leave, but she insisted that we stay for the show. So we did. And I really, really hate the crap he’s doing now—damn, I keep thinking the bastard’s still alive—I mean what he was doing before he… you know.”