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

by Raymond Benson

  “With all due respect, sir, how much do you know about rock and roll?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m an expert on rock and roll. I might be able to hear something you didn’t.”

  “Only select members of the Task Force will be allowed to listen to the CDs, Berenger. Last time I looked, you were not a member of the Chicago Police Department. You’re a guest in this meeting.”

  “Does that mean you’re not going to share the disks with me?”

  “That’s right, Berenger. I’m going to ask you to leave the crime-fighting to us. I can’t force you to leave our fair city and butt out of the investigation, but I do believe that the party who hired you to come to Chicago is now dead. The City of Chicago is certainly not going to pay Rockin’ Security for you to continue your investigation. So I suggest you and your pretty partner go home.”

  Berenger felt Prescott bristle beside him.

  Doherty didn’t wait for a response. He turned back to the group and continued. “You each have a folder containing some mug shots. We’ve put together a group of suspects. You’ll all be assigned to track these people down and bring them in for questioning. To be honest, I don’t put a lot of stock in most of them—they appear to be long shots. However, there is one suspect at the top of the list and I want us to take a good long look at him.”

  Him? Berenger wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

  Doherty held up a mug shot of a man in his forties. He wore makeup—eyeliner, eyeshade, and lipstick—but it had smeared during his arrest process. “This is Felix Bushnell. He’s an ex-con and he has a history as a cross dresser. He was pinched in the eighties for peeping tom activity and indecent exposure. Got probation. He was arrested in nineteen-ninety-two and served six years in the state pen for armed robbery. His M.O. was dressing up as a woman and robbing people on the street. Very similar to what we have now—the only difference is that he didn’t kill anyone back then. It’s possible his crimes have escalated. Another consideration is that the robberies he committed were all after rock concerts. He targeted kids and young adults leaving various Chicago venues—you know, they were high or drunk after a show, making them easier victims. Currently lives in the Belmont and Clark area in an apartment above a sex shop.”

  Berenger took Case’s copy of the mug shot and looked at it. Felix Bushnell was terribly ugly. The PI tried to imagine what the guy might look like wearing a blonde wig. He supposed it was possible Bushnell was the “woman” he had chased. The question was why would Bushnell want to start killing off rock musicians—and not rob them?

  The meeting went on for another twenty minutes and Berenger tuned Doherty out. They had an appointment with Stuart Clayton sometime that day, and Berenger didn’t want to miss it. He needed to call the musician and set the time.

  Finally, Doherty dismissed everyone and left the room. Mike Case rolled his eyes at Berenger and said, “Thanks for not giving me up on those CDs.”

  “I’m not a rat, Mike. Your secret is safe with me. Just see if you can get copies so I can hear them. I’ve got to call Stuart Clayton. Suzanne and I are supposed to go see him.”

  Prescott raised her eyebrows. “We’re staying?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re continuing with the case? Without Zach?”

  “For now, yeah. Is that a problem?”

  She shook her head. “No, boss.”

  A young police officer approached Berenger and said, “Sergeant Doherty asked me to take you to fill out some paperwork on your handgun.”

  Berenger looked at Case. “Do I really have to do this?”

  Case sighed. “I’m afraid so. Sorry. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”

  Berenger groaned and went with the officer.

  It was after sunset when Berenger and Prescott finally pulled up in front of Clayton’s house, which was located on Mango Avenue, just north of Irving Park Road. The paperwork Berenger had to fill out at the police station was ridiculous and time-consuming, and he knew Doherty had ordered it just to make the PI angry. There was an implication that if Berenger promised to get out of town, the return of his handgun could possibly be expedited. It was late afternoon by the time he finally phoned Clayton and made the appointment for that evening.

  The neighborhood was middle-class but Clayton’s house might have belonged in the ghetto. Even in the dark it was an eyesore. The yard and flowerbeds were overgrown with weeds, the place was in serious need of a paint job, and most of the shingles had long disappeared from the roof. No outdoor lights were on but dim illumination could be seen through drapes behind a front window.

  “Joe Nance was right about Clayton living in a dump,” Prescott said. “I bet his neighbors hate him.”

  “The poor guy’s an invalid, you know.”

  “What, he can’t hire a lawn service?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have a lot of money, Suzanne. What’s the guy live on? Surely not his record sales.”

  “Sorry. You’re right.”

  “Let’s go knock on the door.”

  They got out of their rented Subaru and approached the door. Prescott found a bell and pushed the button. They didn’t hear anything, so Berenger knocked loudly. Nothing happened for thirty seconds, so he knocked again. Finally, there was the sound of shuffling feet behind the door.

  “Who is it?” The voice was high, as if the speaker were frightened of whoever might be calling.

  “Mister Clayton? It’s Spike Berenger and Suzanne Prescott from Rockin’ Security. We spoke on the phone earlier today, remember? We had an appointment?”

  Nothing happened for a moment. Berenger looked at Prescott and made a face—what do we do now?

  But the lock rattled and the door creaked open.

  The hallway was dark, so they saw only a silhouette of the man standing in front of them. He was of medium height and very thin. He supported himself on a cane, which he held in his left hand.

  “Stuart Clayton?” Berenger asked.

  “That’s me. Come inside.”

  Distinct odors assaulted them as they stepped through the door. The stronger ones were of mildew and neglect, another being burned toast. Clayton closed and locked the door behind them, and then led them through the hallway and into a kitchen. The man walked slowly and with a limp, although not as pronounced as Berenger’s.

  The kitchen was filthy. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and appeared as if they’d been there for days, maybe weeks. Empty cans of food lay on their side and on the floor. A table that might have come from an abandoned diner was covered in stains. The refrigerator was old—probably from the sixties—and its motor made a gurgling, grinding noise.

  “Sorry if the place is untidy,” Clayton said. “Have a seat.”

  There were exactly three chairs around the table. They too appeared to be filched from a diner. The vinyl covering on all three was split in several places. Clayton lowered himself slowly into one of the chairs and hooked the handle of his cane on the edge of the table. Berenger and Prescott took the other seats.

  Now that the man was in the light, Berenger thought that Stuart Clayton looked pretty much the same as he had when the PI first met him in 1979. Sure, he was older, gaunter, and most of his short, dirty brown hair had turned grey. The man’s skin was pasty white and creamy, as if he used moisturizer on a daily basis. Clayton’s sad, haunted eyes told the whole story—he was a man who was not well.

  “Do you remember me now, Mister Clayton?” Berenger asked.

  “You do look familiar, but I’m afraid I don’t. Sorry. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Please call me Stuart.” He turned to Prescott. “And if I’d known you’d have such a lovely sister, I would have told you to come sooner!”

  Prescott smiled. “Thank you. I’m Spike’s partner, not his sister.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon. I must have misheard you. That happens a lot, too.”

  Clayton had a voice high in timbre, but it was shaky and fragil
e—much the way he sounded on early Red Skyez records or his own solo albums. It was a singing voice that was an acquired taste for most listeners, but Berenger had always found it plaintive and poignant.

  “Can I get you something to drink? I don’t have much to offer. Maybe some fruit juice?” He had addressed this to Prescott.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Thanks, Stuart, but we just had dinner,” Berenger said. “We’ll ask some quick questions and then get out of your hair.”

  “All right.”

  Berenger then noticed that the lower left quadrant of the man’s face was paralyzed. The left corner of his mouth refused to part when he spoke. A remnant of the man’s stroke, perhaps?

  “I’m sure you’ve heard what has happened to your old musical colleagues?”

  “Yes. It’s terrible. To tell you the truth, I’m afraid for my life. I told the police that when they came to see me but they don’t seem to want to protect me.”

  “I understand they don’t have the budget to put extra men on protection duty, Stuart. I know it sucks, but there’s not a lot that can be done about it. Don’t you have someone to come to the house and help you out? You told me on the phone that you have a maid or nurse or someone?”

  “I told you that? No, no. I used to have a nurse who’d look in on me twice a week. I think she got fed up with me. I can be a cranky old fart. She gave notice… let’s see… two weeks ago. I need to hire someone new.”

  “Are you able to get the things you need? Food? Supplies? Medicine?” Prescott asked.

  “Oh, sure. I can drive my old car that’s in the garage. I try not to, though. I still have a license but my reflexes are not what they should be. I drive pretty slow. Other drivers get mad at me and honk their horns. I only go out when I absolutely have to.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you support yourself?”

  “Oh. I have some money from a trust that my family set up when I became disabled in the seventies. It’s not much, but I can live on it if I’m careful and don’t spend too much each month.”

  “Do you still have family that help out?”

  “No, they’re all gone now.”

  Berenger nodded. “I see. Okay, then. Stuart, do you have any idea why someone is killing Chicagoprog musicians?”

  Clayton made a face. “I hate that term. Chicagoprog. It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know who coined it. We sure didn’t. Probably some fool music journalist.”

  “But do you have an idea why this is happening?”

  Clayton spoke slowly and hesitantly as if he had to think about what he wanted to say before he said it. “Well, sure. It’s Sylvia. She’s come back from the dead to kill us. It’s that simple.”

  Berenger and Prescott shared a glance. “Tell us about Sylvia.”

  Clayton sighed and closed his eyes. “She was a young, beautiful girl. Very talented. She wrote wonderful songs and sang beautifully. I thought she could be the next Judy Collins. I wanted to take her under my wing, so to speak.” He opened his eyes. The images he had conjured in his mind were gone.

  “When did you first meet her?”

  “She started coming to some of our early gigs. Nineteen-sixty-seven, I guess. She wasn’t shy about being a groupie.”

  “I understand the entire band became very friendly with her,” Prescott said.

  “That’s right. She dated Joe Nance, I’m pretty sure. I dated her. I use the word ‘date’ loosely, if you know what I mean. We all discovered drugs in sixty-seven and she was one of our suppliers. And don’t ask me where she got them. I don’t know and never asked. If I did know, I’ve forgotten.”

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  “That first time she left town, she said she went to Europe to see her mother. The second time, well, I think she was abducted or something.”

  Berenger frowned. “Wait. You said ‘first time.’ What do you mean?”

  “Oh. She left Chicago for several months in… I think it was late sixty-eight, early sixty-nine. We didn’t see her for a long time and then she pops up again. Said she was in Europe.”

  “Where in Europe?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “So, she was back with us and things were just like they were before she left… and then one day she was gone again. We didn’t think about it at first. Figured she was kind of flighty, you know? But after a few weeks we got nervous. I went to the police and filed a missing person report. They didn’t do much. And I never saw her alive again.”

  There was a short moment of uncomfortable silence.

  “So, Stuart, if Sylvia is a ghost and she’s really come back, why would she want to kill you all? I thought she was your friend.”

  “Oh, she’s come back, all right. I’ve seen her!”

  Berenger raised his eyebrows. “Tell us about that.”

  “It was right here in the house. I was in bed. I woke up and there she was, standing at the foot of the bed. She was wearing that floppy hat she always wore. And sunglasses. It happened twice.”

  “And you’re sure you weren’t dreaming?”

  “I wasn’t dreaming, Mister Berenger. I was wide awake. And scared out of my wits.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Yes. She told me that I would be the last to die.”

  11

  Photographs and Memories

  (performed by Jim Croce)

  Berenger and Prescott stayed longer at Clayton’s house than they had planned. After talking for a while, Clayton mentioned that he hadn’t eaten. Berenger offered to send out for a pizza and Clayton accepted. While they were waiting, Clayton suggested that he show them his home studio.

  Unlike the kitchen and what they had seen of the house so far, the studio was clean and neat. It consisted of an extremely small soundproofed room containing a Yamaha baby grand piano, three different electronic keyboards, drum machines, amps, and microphones. All of the equipment was jammed tightly together and Berenger wondered how anyone could manage in there without becoming claustrophobic. The recording booth was big enough for two people to sit at a mixing board. Clayton explained that he usually did all of his own producing and mixing. He had to painstakingly walk back and forth from the booth to the studio as he set levels before actually sitting down to lay tracks.

  “I never got along with outside producers,” he explained.

  Berenger noticed a door next to the studio and reached out to open it, but it was locked.

  “Oh, that’s just a storeroom,” Clayton said. “I keep master tapes in there. Recordings of shows we did back in the sixties. That kind of stuff.”

  “You have recordings of any Loop gigs?” Prescott asked.

  “Yes, I do. A few. Most of them are terrible quality. There are a handful of good ones.”

  “I’d love to hear one.”

  Clayton seemed to take pleasure in her request. “I don’t normally dig those things out for people… but for you, my dear, I will.”

  The man hobbled to the door, reached into his pocket, and removed a ring containing several keys. He fumbled with them until he found the right one, and then unlocked the door. As Clayton went inside, Berenger got a glimpse of the interior. The storeroom was as big as the studio and mixing booth combined. It appeared to contain nothing but shelves filled with cartons of all shapes and old reel-to-reel tape boxes. Clayton grabbed one of the latter, emerged from the storeroom, and locked it behind him.

  “I’ll put it on in the studio, but you’ll be able to hear it in my living room.”

  Unfortunately, the “living room” was as dusty and messy as the kitchen. Berenger found it strange that Clayton kept the music side of his residence sparkling, and yet the personal areas were pig sties.

  Prescott sat on a couch after brushing off a layer of dust. She sneezed and pulled a tissue out of her handbag. “I’m not sure I can stay in here very long,” she whispered. “Allergies.”

  “I know wha
t you mean.”

  The music drifted through speakers that were attached to the upper corners of the room. The source was definitely an old tape of bootleg quality, but considering the time frame and primitive equipment upon which the concert was likely recorded, it sounded remarkably good. After an announcer introduced the band to scattered applause, The Loop launched into some old-fashioned Chicago Blues but with decidedly up-tempo and technically-proficient musicianship. Blues with a progressive slant—the cradle of what became known as Chicagoprog—and it was fabulous. Berenger felt as if he were listening to a piece of musical history that few people would ever experience.

  Clayton entered the room, leaning heavily on his cane. “Is it too loud?” he asked.

  “No, it’s great,” Berenger said.

  “This sounds really good!” Prescott remarked.

  “It does, Stuart. You should release this stuff. It’s amazing!”

  “Thank you. No, no, I don’t think I can release it. It’s too painful, really. I find I can’t listen to it for very long. But we did play some pretty good music back then, I must say.”

  Berenger, who was still standing, wandered over to a fireplace that was full of ages-old ash and debris. Above it was a mantle upon which dusty framed photographs sat. Berenger picked up one that caught his attention. It was a picture of The Loop onstage, probably circa the same time as the performance they were hearing. Clayton stepped over to join him.

  “Ah, yes. That’s us. I think that photo is from nineteen-sixty…nine. Maybe.”

  Berenger pointed to the various members. “That’s you on keys, of course, and there’s Joe Nance. Charles is on the drums. Let’s see, is that Harrison Brill and Manny Rodriguez?”

  “Yes. That was taken before Dave Monaco or Jim Axelrod were part of the band.”

  A portion of the audience could be seen in the photo. A woman with a floppy hat and sunglasses stood against the edge of the stage, staring up at the band.

  Berenger indicated her. “Is that…?”