CHAPTER 14
5:15 PM and still no Jim Douglas Morrison. The bearded singer of ‘Five to One’ was keeping his company of three waiting: Gregory pacing back and forth in front of the window, Tony spinning around on a padded, reclining office chair pretending to understand what he was reading from the law book opened in his hands, and the polygraph monitor, Eric Witherspoon, himself a past bassist in a bar band from Nebraska and former student of the angel D’Ariel. Eric, the recent consumer of four slices of 6-cheese pizzas, three stuffed cheesy breads, one piece of chocolate cake and a giant-sized cup of organic, craft brewed root beer, was comfortably sleeping with folded arms in his reclined chair. Completely forgetting he was with company, he twisted to one side, eased off his butt, and made a fart sound so loud and wet he’d better check his drawers, like, immediately. Gregory opened the window to spare himself the pleasure of the cheese-inspired wind. Just then, Jim came staggering into the office, his pants wet from who knows what, his shirt disheveled, and a road sign in his hand. Instinctively, the PI and Tony helped him sit in a chair before he collapsed on the floor.
“Before you fellas start lecturing me,” Jim managed to spit out, albeit slurred, “just know I have a history of being fashionably late.”
“What is this?” Gregory asked, pointing to the road sign as the examiner woke up.
“What?” the confused singer asked then look down and noticed the wooden item. “Who gave this to me?” he asked, stunned. Nevertheless, he read the sign:
Jupiter Barbers – Luxury Styles
“Anybody want a haircut?” he laughed. Unamused, Gregory wrestled the sign from the singer and placed in on the desk. “Come here and give me some love,” Jim beckoned the small gathering, outstretching his arms for an embrace. When no one accepted his offer, crestfallen, he folded them across his chest “You guys are chumps,” he groaned. “I want my money back.”
“Jim,” the PI uttered in a stern voice, “we waited over two hours for you and this is what you do? Come staggering in here like a frat boy?”
“I was one, you jerk,” the singer schooled him. “FSU Tallahassee. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Gregory shook his head. “You’re not up to this.” He turned to the polygraph monitor. “We’ll have to do this some other time.”
“Actually,” Witherspoon suggested, nibbling the fallen pizza crumbs from his shirt, “in goes the wine, out comes the truth. Now is perfect. What do you say, Jim?”
“You cannot petition the Lord with prayer!” the singer bellowed, his voice so loud it caused Tony to jump. “Hey,” Jim asked, looking at Witherspoon, “where’s fat boy?”
“Who?” the monitor asked.
“D’Ariel, general,” the singer explained. “The angel who oversees this stuff.”
“I’m Eric Witherspoon, the monitor for tonight” the ex-bassist said. “I’m not an angel but they didn’t feel one was necessary as this is just a follow up. Are you ready?”
A few minutes later, Black Beard was sitting in the examining chair with electrodes strapped to his arm and chest as Eric calibrated his machine. Tony sat on the desk to get a bird’s eye view of the test while Gregory sat with the monitor watching him prepare.
“Are you ready?” the PI asked the inebriated man.
Jim saluted. “Ready, Freddie.”
“What’s your name?” Gregory asked.
“James Douglas Morrison,” he answered, “but my friends call me Jim, so you can call me Jim. Jim, Jim, Jim, Little Jimmy Morrison.”
“Where were you born?” the PI inquired
“Melbourne, Australia,” the singer lied.
Gregory squinted in disbelief. “Australia?”
Jim threw up his hands. “Just kidding. Melbourne, Florida. Grade A military brat.”
Gregory sighed and turned to Witherspoon. “How’s it looking?” he whispered.
“So far, so good,” came the calibrator’s reply.
The PI returned to his questionee. “What drugs have you used?”
Black Beard shook his head. “None today.”
“I meant in your entire life,” Gregory elucidated.
Jim smiled. “You sure you have the time?”
“Just answer the question,” the PI grunted.
The rock singer started rattling off names like they were zipping by on a speedy teleprompter in front of him. “Mescaline, Cocaine, Heroin. That China White is a killer. Bites like a crocodile. Whoa! Acid, Peyote, Mushrooms, Marijuana, Mar-Ree-Wah-Nah…I forget the rest.”
“Did you get along with Amy Winehouse?” the ex-cop quizzed him.
“Most certainly, old chap,” he bowed while answering with a faux British accent.
“On the night of Friday, July 15,” Gregory asked, “Miss Winehouse was found deceased just off a trail near the Millstream in Woodstock. How did she get there?”
“Je ne sais pas,” Jim answered.
The PI huffed. “English, please.”
The singer shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Do you have anything to do with her being there?” Gregory queried the difficult musician.
“Nope,” Jim replied.
“Are you responsible for the death of Amy Winehouse?” the PI asked him directly.
“Not to my knowledge,” Black Beard whimsically answered.
“What does that mean?” the PI asked firmly.
“No,” Jim straightened up and answered. “I. Did. Not. Kill. Amy. Winehouse.”
“Have you ever heard anyone mention the details of her death?” Gregory asked.
The singer shook his head. “No, sir.”
Exasperated, Gregory turned to Witherspoon again. “How’s he doing?”
The monitor motioned to the printout. “Calm as a well-fed belly. No activity here.”
The PI returned to Jim. “What were you drinking today?”
“Do I reek?” the songwriter asked, sniffing his armpits.
“What were you drinking today?” Gregory reiterated.
“Whiskey,” Jim answered.
“What else?”
“That’s it. Just whiskey.”
“Is that what you drank at ASU?” the PI asked.
“FSU,” Jim corrected him. “And yes.”
Witherspoon leaned close to Gregory’s ear. “He’s clean as a whistle,” he whispered. “You want to continue?”
“No,” he told him, then turned to Jim. “I’m done.”
“How’d I do, doc?” the still inebriated ‘L.A Woman’ singer asked.
“You’re fine,” the PI informed him. “Passed with flying colors.”
“In that case,” Jim wondered, “you don’t mind if I went back to the bar? They’re keeping my seat warm.”
“What does it feel like?” Tony asked the bearded poet.
The singer turned and looked at the young PI-in-training. “What does what feel like?”
“You know,” Tony solicited, “being a star. The lights, the TVs, the interviews, the chicks, the concerts…”
“I’m in it, man,” Jim replied. “I’m not an observer, you know what I mean? What it looks like outside that bubble, I don’t have a clue.”
“Do you have any regrets?” the novice asked.
“About being a musician?” Jim took a deep breath then exhaled. “I guess we all have a destiny; some of us are lucky to find it because the stars are in the right alignment, I don’t know. Ask Nostradamus about that kind of stuff. He’d know better than me.”
“This is pretty wild, man,” Tony beamed. “Talking to a legend. You know, I bet I’ve heard your voice more than my dad’s.”
“That’s not good,” Jim lamented.
“But it’s true,” the young guitarist insisted. “They play y’all a lot on classic rock stations. You know, some people still think you’re alive, chilling like a hermit somewhere, living off the land. I guess they’re hoping you’ll come back and make some more records or something.”
“Hey man,” Jim whispered, “without hope, what else do we
got?”
“Can I ask you another question?” the recently conscripted sleuth wondered.
Gregory could see the singer was getting tired. “Tony, that’s enough for one night, don’t you think?”
“No, no, it’s okay,” Jim told them. “You know, when you first get here, you have a lot of questions. You’re a fanboy, like a kid in a candy store the size of the Dubai Mall. You run into your heroes and you can’t take your eyes off ‘em. Sitting in a bar, clinking glasses with your heroes. I did that. Of, course, after years and years of meeting the same faces, it all starts feeling…bland. Oh, there’s Elmore James, Chuck Willis, Big Bopper…” the singer pointed arbitrarily to no one, “it become same ol’, same ol’. But the new cats that get up here, the unfamous ones schlepping their gear through the rain and snow to play in bars for six or seven people, those are the disillusioned ones. They meet people like me and they feel better. I meet people like them and I feel better. Everybody wins. So, no, I don’t mind these questions at all.”
“That’s right neighborly of you, Jim,” Gregory complimented him.
“Thanks, man,” he nodded. “I try. My buddy, Bill Black, he feels differently, but that’s his hangup.”
“Who’s Bill Black?” Tony asked.
“The bass player from Elvis’ band,” Jim replied.
“Elvis Presley?” the wide eyed young detective asked.
“How many Elvises do you know?” the blues-rock singer questioned him.
“And he’s here, too?” Tony practically squealed.
“Of course,” Jim answered. “Where else would he be? Shangri La?”
“He did sing country and gospel, too,” the youngster noted.
“He’s a rocker, man,” the singer emphasized. “Through and through. People think I drink a lot but that motherfucker can put me under the table in fifteen minutes.”
“Sweet,” Tony smiled. “Can’t wait to meet him. Hey, you know they made a pretty good movie about The Doors.”
“Yeah, I saw it,” Jim nodded. “The one with Val Kilmer?”
“Yeah,” Tony replied. “How accurate was that?”
“It wasn’t,” the controversial, raven-haired entertainer stated. “They took a lot of liberties, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s all about the mystique anyway. Anything else you wanna know?”
“I’m good,” Tony claimed. “For now.”
“I’m straight,” the PI added.
“You ever slept with a guy?” the young D asked out of the blue.
“What?” Jim spurted, nearly swallowing his tongue.
“You are a good-looking dude,” Tony fawned.
“Stop right there,” his elder partner warned him. “That’s going too far.”
“Just wanted to know, man,” the sullen youngster groaned. “Somebody like Jim Morrison’s gotta be hit on from all sides.”
“You’re out of line,” Gregory castigated him.
“It’s okay, bro,” Jim came to his defense. “You don’t think I play off that image? I know it works that way sometimes. Why do you think I always get arrested when I…?”
“Alright,” Witherspoon brazenly interjected. “Before this turns into a Stonewall session, Brother Jim, thanks for coming down. I’m sorry you had to go through this again. If it wasn’t important, we wouldn’t have troubled you.”
“That’s okay, man,” Jim indicated. “Always willing to help an investigation. Do me a favor, though, huh? Help me out of these wires. I’m stiff as a motherfucker.”