I'm Kristen Cevi, and this is Murder She Told.

The bouncer took his post outside of Take Five Music Hall, shifting his weight from one

foot to the other, watching the steam of his own breath rise and disappear into the late

fall air. It was a chilly Friday night in Concord, New Hampshire, and the air had a wintry chill.

Rain had fallen earlier in the day, and the pavement was slick with patches of wet leaves

that clung to boots and tires.

The streetlights cast a dull orange sheen over the puddles in the parking lot, and you

could smell the season in the air.

Wood, smoke, damp earth, and the sour

tang of spilled beer drifting from the entrance. The bouncer had worked this door long enough

to know how the night would go. Loud music, a line that ebbed and flowed, and the steady rhythm of

checking IDs. He would turn away troublemakers and break up the occasional

scuffle. The job wasn't hard, but it wasn't easy either. Since the late 70s, Take 5 had carved out

its place as a mainstay in Concord's nightlife, part rock venue, part dance club, and a magnet for trouble.

It drew everyone, from kids with fake IDs, to die-hard

regulars who knew every bartender by name. Inside, music throbbed from the speakers, reverberating

through the floorboards. It was a tangle of movement, bass, and cigarette smoke. He scanned the line as he always did, shifting his

attention from the crowd to the door and back. Then around 9.30 p.m., something caught his attention,

a guy who wanted to get in. He was joined by two other men. They'd been drinking. That much was obvious, but that wasn't

unusual. Plenty people pre-gamed before hitting the club. What stood out to him was how he dressed.

It was 1989, a time when people showed up in leather jackets, ripped jeans, denim skirts,

ready for a night of loud music and cheap beer.

...