CHAPTER 29
As expected, when Gregory escorted Brian Jones out of the hospital that morning, he knew their simple trek across Tinker Street to the polygraph room at the police station was going to take a while. As they exited the small hospital, they were instantly accosted by cameras and microphones in their faces, all surrounded by several members of the press. There was now about 100 supporters of the blonde-bobbed ex-Stones guitarist, as well as a generous helping of curious onlookers. Both Brian and Gregory, escorted by twin angels in white, effortlessly moved through the swirling mass aided by an invisible shield created by the overlords. Declining to give any statements or answer questions, detective and suspect finally made it across the street and into the station without further incident. After they entered, the twin angels wrapped the invisible shield around and above the station, successfully preventing anyone from barging in.
Minutes later, in the interrogation room, Brian was hooked up to the polygraph while its operator, Eric Witherspoon, was seated in front of it making last minute adjustments. Sitting next to Witherspoon, Angelicus had a pad and paper in hand; his legs crossed in a casual way. He sipped water from a glass on the table next to the machine and commenced his task.
“For the record,” he began, “please give us your name.”
“Lewis Brian Hopkins Jones,” the musician answered.
“When and where were you born?”
“I was born February 28, 1942 in Cheltenham, UK,” Brian answered.
“Do you recall when and where you died, and under what circumstances?”
Brian shifted uneasily in his seat.
“Sorry to ask this,” the PI apologized. “Just questions to gauge the legitimacy of your answers.”
“It’s okay, mate,” Brian said. “It happened at me house on Cotchford Farm in Hartfield, East Sussex. Pretty tony country home, it is. Quite famous, I would say. You know the chap who wrote Winne the Pooh?”
The detective shrugged.
“A.A. Milne,” Brian answered. “Once belonged to ‘im.”
“Must have cost a fortune,” the PI guessed.
“I was in the Stones, mate,” Brian reminded him. “Anyway, me band mates got to hating me. I don’t know what I’d done, but it’s so. Maybe they thought I got into too much trouble, but you know, it was the sixties. Total liberation, mate.”
“Party all the time,” Gregory added.
“Yes,” Brian nodded. “You name it, we had it.”
“Who’s we?”
“I had a lady friend named Anna, Anna Wohlin from Sweden,” he admitted. “Pretty thing, she was. Nothing was off limits, you know what I mean? I knew all the drugs and alcohol I poured in my body would kill me someday, just didn’t think it’d happen at 27, though. Anyway, me and me mate, Frank Thorogood, he’s a builder of sorts, went for a late-night dip in me pool.”
“When did this happen?” the PI asked.
“Around midnight, July the 2nd, 1969,” the musician said.
“And that’s when you…”
“That’s when I bought the farm,” Brian completed the detective’s sentence. “You know, I had a bit of a wheeze; asthma, they say. Me inhaler is normally kept by the pool just in case, you know. I was drunk out me gourd, horse-playing in the water with me mate, Frank, going under then coming up for air, going under then coming up for air. One of those “going unders” made me lungs fill up and I drowned.”
“Hmm,” Gregory mused, “why didn’t your friend Frank pull you out of the water?”
“I don’t think he knew,” the singer said.
“How could he not know?” the PI quizzed him. “He was there.”
“The whole night’s a fog,” Brian admitted. “I was soaking in brandy, Frank had vodka. My guess is he went back to the house for a refill.”
“And by the time people found you,” Gregory noted, “it was too late.”
“Yep,” the multi-instrumentalist said. “Just like that.”
Gregory leaned in to Witherspoon. “How’s he doing so far?”
“Hardly moving the needle,” the round one replied.
The PI returned to Brian. “Okay,” he warned him, “here comes the tough stuff.”
The musician loosened his shoulders. “I’m ready.”
Gregory looked directly into Brian’s eyes. “Are you responsible for the death of R & B singer Amy Winehouse?”
“Not at all,” he answered.
The PI, hearing the needle on the polygraph scratching louder, glanced at the machine. That last question he’d just asked the blonde guitarist, he noticed, lit a fire beneath him.
“Who killed Amy Winehouse?” Angelicus asked the musician.
“I don’t know.” Like before, Brian’s answer caused the needle to track heavily, the black ink creating acute sketches resembling the peaks of Mt. Everest.
“Why do you think anyone would kill Ms. Winehouse?”
“I don’t know,” the musician answered.
The detective didn’t have to glance at the polygraph to realize something was amiss with his questionee. He could see small droplets of sweat had formed on his brow; Brian was also nervously chewing the flesh on the inside of his cheek.
“Do you understand the importance of this investigation?” the PI asked him.
“Yes,” he answered. “They want to lock the doors of Heaven.”
“If you know something,” Gregory exhorted, “anything, now is the time to say.”
Brian gazed directly at the PI. “I don’t know anything.”
“Okay,” the PI said, moving on to Part 2. “You know, when you saw that little wooden case in my hand at the back of the 27 Club, you dived after it like it was a million dollars in cash falling out of a plane.”
“Just me protective instincts kicking in,” the artist explained. “Nothing more.”
Gregory glanced at Witherspoon who shook his head while displaying signs of doubt on his face. He turned back to Brian. “I think that’ll be all for now.”
“Can I go back to the hospital then?” Brian asked. “I’m famished and a bit tired.”
“Sure,” the PI answered. “I’ll walk you back.”
After Witherspoon removed the leads off the musician, he returned to his machine while interviewer and interviewee began exiting. As Brian was about to open the door to step out of the office, he stopped and turned to Gregory. “You think I did it, don’t you?”
“This wasn’t a trial, Brian,” Gregory insisted. “Just a fact-finding survey.”
“So, what do you…”
“I have no personal opinion about this,” the PI swore.
“I can always disappear into another heaven,” Brian hinted.
Gregory reached into a pocket in his tunic, brought out his orientation manual, and quickly flipped through the virtual pages until he found what he was looking for. “It says here,” he explained, turning the book over to Brian, “fugitivity is futile.”
The musician looked puzzled by a word he’d never heard before. “Fugi…”
“Fugitivity or fugitiveness – the act of fleeing from justice,” the PI clarified. “It’s from the Latin ‘fugitivus – fleeing.’ I had to look it up myself. You leave and your credits go down to zero. Plan on doing a lot of starving in the next heaven.”
Brian perused the passage in the manual himself, mumbling the words as he read. “Adding weight to my soul…increased fatigue…puss and sores?”
“From malnutrition,” the PI explained. “Seems like celestial matter decomposes differently from carbon-based organisms. You simply fall apart, and it’s as painful as 4th place.”
The multi-instrumentalist returned the virtual book to its owner. “I’ll stay put till I’m transferred to Medical.”
“Good idea,” Gregory said. “Let’s go.”