Officer Elvis (12 page)

E
ARLIER THAT AFTERNOON

Daniels arrived at Everson's trailer more than an hour before Everson usually got home from his job as a logger. Daniels pulled his SUV around the backside of the land the trailer sat on, on a dirt side road, where it wouldn't be seen from either the trailer or the main road.

Everson's trailer had a picture window across the front that spanned the living room and dining area. The window looked out at a large grassy front yard and beyond that a dense forest of planted pines, all about twenty feet tall, spreading out like a green wall across the landscape.

Getting out of his SUV, Daniels strapped the AK-47 over his shoulder and walked the hundred yards among the tall pines, back to the trailer, careful to stay hidden all the while.

As he approached the trailer, he pulled on a pair of rubber surgeon's gloves. Popping the lock on the front door was nothing, thanks to the police lock-picking knife he'd ordered online. All he did was follow the instructions. Ten seconds and he was inside the tin can. He locked the door behind him, just to be on the safe side. If somebody stopped by to ask for directions, or a Jehovah's Witness or some damn thing like that, he wouldn't answer the door. If it were a neighbor or some snoop, the door would be locked. All he'd have to do is wait until they left. On the other hand, if Everson got home early, he'd hear him unlocking the door and have his AK-47 ready. Not as planned, but the result would be the same.

He was worried he might have to go through all the cabinets and the refrigerator before he found the makings he was looking for. Lucky for him, two bananas were sitting on the windowsill, ripening in the sun. Each one had a few little brown specks on it, so he knew they were ready. A loaf of bread was on the counter. He didn't touch it. Same with the peanut butter he found on the middle shelf of the first cabinet he opened.

He'd read up on Everson just as he had the others. Everson bragged in an interview he'd given to the
Jackson Crier
that he had eaten Elvis's favorite food, a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich, every day for the last five years. Everson had said he would eat the same thing every day for the rest of his life. Looked like Everson was going to be a man of his word.

Removing a small syringe from his pocket, he uncapped it. It was loaded and ready to go. He held it up to the light and tapped it a couple of times to make sure there were no air pockets. He inserted the syringe into the first banana, dispensing about the half the liquid, which was more than enough. Then he did the same with the second.

He was about to leave the trailer, and thought, I've got time, let me look around. He argued with himself over the matter, seeing as how he knew the sight of what he'd find would disgust him. But the urge was overpowering. He had to see them. Touch them. He even thought about trying one on, just to see how it felt. The feel of the silk on his skin, the weight of the rhinestones. “Shit,” he muttered. “I ain't doing this. I ain't no pervert.” But he went searching for them anyway.

He found them in back of the trailer, past all the trophies and Elvis memorabilia. In the bedroom, in the closet along the wall, each jumpsuit inside its own clear plastic bag.

There were three: the White Aloha suit, the powder blue, and the red suit. Not exactly original. He'd seen all three of them at Graceland and remembered that the red suit was called “The Burning Love Suit.” Any dope who wanted to could order one on the Internet for around two thousand dollars. The red suit had its own cape, studs, and a gold belt—not real gold, of course. He unzipped the plastic garment bag and ran his fingers over the material. Felt like some cheap polyester crap. Still he wondered what it would feel like on him. He reached inside the bag, and was going to take it out, but a sick feeling overtook him, like he was going to puke.

He zipped up the bag and ran down the hall to the bathroom. “I'm sorry,” he said aloud, looking at the image in the mirror. “I know it's disgusting to you. It's disgusting to me, too. I'll never do anything like that again. I'm glad I stopped.” He gave the image in the mirror a big smile and the image smiled back. He said to the mirror, “If he had half the voice you have, he wouldn't be parading around in some damned Las Vegas jumpsuit. Say the word and I'll take the three of them and burn them. I'll do it right now. How would that be?” The image looked back at him with a furrowed brow. “Okay, no fancy stuff. I'll just do what we planned. No mistakes this time.” He nodded and the image nodded back.

Leaving the trailer, he found a spot for himself a few rows deep in the pines, where the land dipped and he could lie flat on the ground, out of sight, and use his binoculars to observe. He was being even more careful this time than last time. The man in the mirror wouldn't tolerate another mistake—another innocent person the victim of his shortsightedness. Only the guilty should pay. Just as important, this time the authorities wouldn't be left to guess about what had taken place.

He assumed his post, got comfortable, waiting with his binoculars and the AK-47, in case Everson decided to change his dinner plans.

It didn't take long before he spied Everson pulling up to the trailer in an F-150 truck, a drawing of Everson as Elvis stenciled on the side. The conceited jerk hopped out of the cab, dragging his ass back to the trailer, looking so wiped out he could barely make it. Logging will do that to a person.

Daniels started wondering what position Everson's body would be in when it was discovered. He assumed Everson would be somewhere inside the trailer when he keeled over. He hoped the body would end up faceup on the kitchen floor, clutching a half-eaten peanut butter and banana sandwich. Yeah, that would be the absolute best angle for the photos. He smiled thinking that some cop would film it on his smartphone and post it on YouTube. Then the thought came to him: Hell, I'll just stage the body however I want it.

Everson disappeared behind the trailer door, and in a minute Daniels could hear music coming from the trailer; Elvis singing “All Shook Up.” Another minute and Everson came into view at the sink, looking out the window in Daniels's direction. Everson's head was bobbing up and down, his lips moving, singing along with Elvis. Then, right there at the window, Everson held up one of the bananas and peeled it like he was putting on a show.

Holy shit. Daniels's heart raced. It was only one banana, but just one slice would be enough.

Everson set the banana down on the counter and moved out of view. A second or two later he was back in front of the kitchen window holding a skinny kitchen knife in his hand, the kind you use for boning fish.

Daniels focused his binoculars on Everson's hands. Everson peeled the banana, cut four slices, and let them fall to the counter. He held up an open jar of peanut butter, cut through the peanut butter with that same skinny knife, and slathered it on a piece of the white bread. Now came the important part. He took all four slices of banana and placed them, careful like, at four different places on the bread.

Perfect. Take one good bite and you'll be toes up.

Everson smeared a second piece of white bread with peanut butter, and made a sandwich with the two slices. He held the sandwich up to eye level and examined his work, like he was measuring it in his mind against every other peanut butter and banana sandwich he'd ever gobbled down. Satisfied, he nodded his head, turned his back to the window, headed over to the stove, bent down for a second, and came back up into view with a frying pan. He found a tub of something in the refrigerator that looked like butter, cut off a thick slice, and plopped it onto the pan.

The cooking seemed to take forever. Maybe four minutes a side.

Everson slid the sandwich onto a paper plate, didn't bother to cut it—the redneck. Then he turned around facing the window and jammed the gooey fried mess into his mouth. Like a dog: one bite—barely chewing it—then another the same way. A third bite and the whole damn thing was gone. All four slices of the banana.

Daniels remembered a photo he'd seen of Elvis in his army uniform eating a fried banana and peanut butter sandwich in front of his mama. “So long, Private Presley,” he said under his breath.

Everson pulled a can of Bud out of the refrigerator, but he never got the tab popped. He dropped the can and bent over. Grabbing his stomach, he moved away from the window and out of view. Daniels figured he was headed to the bathroom, thinking he'd puke the stuff out of him.

Next thing, Everson surprised him by coming out the door, doubled over, his eyes like they were about to pop out of his head. He made it to the porch steps and fell to the ground, banging his head on the railing as he fell.

With the trailer door open, the music was louder and clear.

Everson lay there on his back in front of the trailer for three or four seconds. He lifted his head and looked around, like he was hoping to see someone who might help him. Finally, he let out a big ole moan and his head dropped down. Stuff that was white and foamy, like soap suds, oozed out of his mouth. His body did a couple of quick spasms and stopped. After that, he just lay there motionless, faceup. Another few seconds and Everson's body gave one more twitch, and then let a blow of air. For sure he was dead now.

As the song ended, Daniels said, “I guess you're all shook up now.” He let the binoculars fall to his chest, stood up, and brushed the dirt off his clothes. Daniels thought he might run back into the trailer and get one of Everson's guitars and position it so it would look like Everson had died playing and singing. That would make for one hell of a front-page photo. But no, it was better just the way it was.

He walked over to the body, gave it a military salute, then danced his way to his car. Jumping in, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw the image smiling at him. He smiled back, slipped on his shades, and drove back on the gravel road in the direction that he'd come from. It was ten miles to the hard road.

Halfway there, unable to control his joy, he lifted his right arm in the air and did a fist pump. “Long live the
real
King!” he shouted.

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON

MBI
C
ONFERENCE
R
OOM

Darla called Shelby, Jendlin, Uther, and Rita together for a debriefing on the previous day's events. “I believe Rita and I passed the killer on the road yesterday,” she began. “Right off Highway 25. When we were on our way to Everson's trailer. But we didn't get much of a visual. The male driver looked the other way as we drove by. Obviously we didn't realize who it was at the time, but it had to be him. The timeline is perfect. We were ten minutes away from Everson's trailer. The victim's body was still warm when we arrived.”

“Y'all didn't get the number on the plates?” asked Shelby.

“I looked at the rearview mirror as he passed, just out of habit,” said Darla, “but his SUV was kicking up too much dust from the gravel road for me to get a read. A silver SUV, with Mississippi tags was all I could tell.”

“Any prints at the scene?” Shelby asked.

“Another glove job,” said Darla.

Shelby checked his tobacco pouch, frowned, seeing it was empty. “You talked to Henry's man Bubba yet?” he asked, referring to profiler Bubba Abrahamson in the FBI Atlanta office.

“I just got off the phone with him,” said Darla. “Bubba thinks the man we're looking for is somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties. He may be ex-military. He's smart, probably self-educated. Bubba sees this guy as a zealot, but Bubba doesn't think he's connected to anything organized. The killer is not a joiner. He operates on what he thinks is a higher moral code. It might be part of a personal narrative for him. This guy sees himself as righteous and it may be important to him that the public sees him that way, too. According to Bubba, the killer will want to go public at some point. Let the world know who he is or thinks he is, and why he's doing what he's doing. Basically, it's what Rita said. Everything points to Tupelo.”

“His coming-out party,” said Shelby.

“There are two concerts scheduled before
Ultimate Elvis.
Where do we stand on those?” asked Darla.

“I provided the benefit of my wise counsel to both Russell Hartford and Pastor Jumbo Peterson last night,” said Shelby. “Mr. Hartford, a man blessed with a healthy portion of common sense, said he would postpone his birthday party. He's also got one of the corporate security people shadowing him. The Southern Church of the Holy Redeemer, on the other hand, said they trusted God to protect them. And Pastor Jumbo said if they canceled, he'd do his singing out on the sidewalk. He's on a mission from God.”

“When is the pastor due in town?” asked Darla.

“Anytime now,” said Shelby. “The church always puts him up at the Beaumont Inn. They got that extra-king-sized bed with a steel-reinforced frame. The pastor is quite a large man and needs the support.”

“Call Jackson PD,” Darla said to Rita. “Explain the situation to the desk sergeant and tell him to send a couple of patrolmen over to the Beaumont. I want one at the front entrance and one at the rear.”

Rita turned her back to the group and made the call.

“I talked to the director of
Ultimate Elvis,
Collins Duckworth,” said Jendlin. “He's unwilling to cancel, saying the city's prestige—as well as a lot of revenue, I might add—is at stake. He told me he didn't care if we had to call out the National Guard. I assured him that wouldn't be necessary. He ended the call saying that nothing would stop the Elvis Express.”

Darla turned to Uther. “I'm hoping you can work some magic for us, Uther.”

Uther looked out over the top of his thick glasses. “It has been observed that any significantly advanced technology is for the most part indistinguishable from magic.”

“Okay, put it this way, Mr. Uther,” said Shelby, “what have you got?”

Rita had finished her call and seemed to be studying Uther, trying to look over the top of his glasses to see his eyes.

“Our facial identify recognition software found driver's licenses or state identity cards for 267 of the 268 males who went in and out of the convention center the morning of the shooting,” said Uther.

“Ain't no place to hide from the prying eyes,” said Shelby. “I'll assign a team of agents to begin interviewing. See if I can borrow five or six sheriff's department detectives to help.”

“What about the man whose face
isn't
on any driver's license or identity cards?” asked Darla. “I'd like to take a look at that guy.”

Uther clicked on his computer and projected a life-size headshot on the far wall. A dark-haired man in his early thirties, handsome but otherwise undistinguished except for his receding hairline. “We didn't find any information regarding this individual,” said Uther. “He doesn't appear to have a driver's license, identity card, or a passport, or else his photos don't match his appearance.”

“Anybody recognize this dude?” asked Shelby. “Is he any of y'all's cousin?”

Silence.

“That's a first for Mississippi,” said Darla. “Someone in Mississippi that nobody knows.”

“Make a copy of his picture, Uther, and pin it up on the board,” said Shelby. “Maybe one of us will run into him at the Wednesday night catfish fry over at the First Baptist Church.”

“I assume you were speaking figuratively, Major Mitchell,” said Uther.

“Ain't he something?” said Shelby.

“I have yet another area of data collection which might prove helpful,” said Uther. “I have captured film footage of every Elvis tribute artist concert that took place within Mississippi in the last six months. In addition to footage of the performer, there is considerable footage of audience members. Our facial recognition program is in the process of capturing the images of the male audience members. I will shortly be able to let you know if there were any males who attended multiple events. We'll do as we did before and run their photos against the state vehicle and driver's license records. It might provide an additional suspect pool.”

“I'm interested in the mystery man at the convention center,” said Darla.

“As am I, Detective,” said Uther, removing his glasses to clean a speck of dust from the right lens.

“Last thing, we're going have to figure out how to deal with my second least favorite group of individuals,” said Shelby. “Lawbreakers being the first.”

“He means the media, in case anyone here was wondering,” said Darla.

“As of this morning, they've figured out about the same things we've figured out,” said Shelby, “which ain't much. They know that Tommy Reylander and this man Roger Everson were both Elvis”—he glanced at Rita—“Elvis tribute artists. Your old friend Josh Klein at WMIS is speculating that Dr. Quenzel was the intended target at the Jackson Convention Center. But so far, nobody in the media has checked the obits and found out about the other three deaths. Which is why I ain't shared pillow talk with any members of the fourth estate. But one way or another I'm going to have to hold a press conference sometime today.”

Rita's cell rang. She picked it up and listened. “We got to get over to the Beaumont,” she said. “There's been another bombing. It's Pastor Jumbo.”

“Is he dead?” asked Shelby.

“One of the patrolmen from Jackson PD just arrived,” Rita said, listening some more. “Yes, sir, Pastor Jumbo is dead. He's the only one.”

“Can they tell where the explosive was set?” asked Shelby.

“Remember that big ole bed they had for Pastor Jumbo?” Rita said, shaking her head.